


Thrice Come Together

by meyghasa (aazeris)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hair Kink, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voice Kink, somewhat AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-21 15:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 41,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21076910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aazeris/pseuds/meyghasa
Summary: Hawke comes to Minrathous to help a friend, and finds Fenris on the way.  A star-crossed romance that spans the course of five years.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> How old is this game now? And yet it still manages to sink a hook into me every time I think I'm free. I just love these idiots too much.
> 
> This fic is finished, clocking in at just under 42,000 words, but I'm still editing so I will be posting a bit at a time. It is 50% porn and 50% angst and ~feelings~ so I hope you enjoy that kind of thing.
> 
> I am prone to abusing italics and commas. I apologize in advance.
> 
> There is some PTSD non-con mentioned in this chapter, just to warn you.
> 
> Song for this chapter: [Simon Curtis - Flesh](https://youtu.be/mEfKooMunLI)

** **

** Act I **

**** **  
** **  
**

****

She was sitting under her favorite apple tree in one of the fields in Lothering, reading her favorite book. It was autumn, cool enough that she needed a shawl, but not so cold that she couldn’t lounge at her leisure. It was her favorite kind of day. In the distance she could see Bethany and Carver playing by the house, her mother hanging laundry on the line outside, her father leaning against the side of the house and making idle conversation. She sighed happily. This was perfect.

“Hawke?”

The voice was tentative, nervous, familiar. She looked up and gasped. The apple tree vanished. Her family disappeared like wisps of smoke. Around them stood the jagged rocks and sickly green sky of the Fade. “Feynriel?”

And sure enough, it was him. He was in a simple robe, his long blond hair braided neatly down his back. He looked just as he had the day she had waved him off at the docks, wishing him well with all her might. That he was here, in the Fade with her, did not bode well.

“What are you doing here? This is my dream,” she said, confused. 

His laugh was bitter. “I’m a somniari, remember? This is child’s play.”

“Ah. Right.” She had the grace to look sheepish. “So, uh, is there a reason you’re haunting my dreams? How’s Tevinter?”

The crux of the matter, the reason he had sought her out. He had no one else. “I know I have no right, after all you’ve done for me — I have no right, but Hawke, you have to help me. Please.” His voice was pleading, and he twisted his hands together in front of him. “I am a tool to them. They would use blood magic to enhance my abilities, and I can’t say no. I don’t know what to do.”

Her eyebrows furrowed and she looked guilty. She had put him there, unsure of what else to do, and now he was in danger. In danger and alone in a city of blood mages who wanted nothing more than to drain him dry. She swallowed thickly. “I will come for you,” she assured him.

He startled. Desperate as he was, he never really thought she would come to his aid. What could she do?

“The Amells have some old connections in Tevinter,” she continued. In fact, she had used those connections to get Feynriel to Tevinter in the first place, and wasn’t life just grand? “Plus, I’m the Champion of Kirkwall. If I can’t throw that kind of weight around, what use is it?” She grinned.

“Hawke, I—“ He trailed off, unsure of what words would properly convey his gratitude. 

She waved a hand. “Anything for a friend. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some letters to write.” She disappeared like smoke, and for the first time in months, Feynriel felt a spark of hope.

—

“Come here, my pet,” Danarius crooned, beckoning with a finger. Keeping his eyes lowered, Fenris approached and took a knee. Danarius dragged one bejeweled finger down Fenris’ cheek. “We are going to have an important guest, and I want you to see to her personally. Can you do that for me, my little wolf?”

“Yes, master,” Fenris said to the floor. 

She arrived within the hour. Standing behind Danarius’ chair with his hands clasped in front of him, Fenris allowed himself the barest of glances, just enough to take her measure. Coffee brown skin, so similar to his own, and deep auburn hair tied into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. She wore robes and carried a staff, and he felt a thread of sickness in his gut. Another magister to rule over him. He swallowed the disgust and ensured he stayed perfectly still.

“Champion!” Danarius said with delight, taking to his feet and grasping her hand in his. She looked vaguely ill at his touch, but it lasted only a moment before she schooled her expression into a smile. 

“I can’t thank you enough for your kind offer to stay in your home,” she said, and Fenris shivered, unable to control himself. Her voice was sonorous like honey. He wondered what it would be like to hear her read to him, the way Danarius sometimes did when he was feeling particularly generous. 

“It is an absolute pleasure, Champion. Please, have a seat. Fenris, wine, if you would.” Danarius tugged on the chain connected to the qunari collar Fenris wore, and he quickly jumped forward to grasp the wine bottle. He poured generously, bowed at the waist, and returned to his spot behind his master without words. “I do hope your research here is fruitful. As a token of my appreciation for you choosing my home of all your options, I offer you my most prized possession. Fenris,” he said, tugging again at the chain. 

Fenris stepped forward, keeping his gaze on the floor, and took a knee. “I will serve you faithfully, mistress,” he said obediently. 

She sounded surprised and waved her hands eagerly. “Oh, that’s not necessary—“

Fenris’ heart sunk. Was he unsuitable somehow? Had he already done something to offend her? Danarius would be furious, and his skin itched at the thought of his inevitable punishment later.

“Nonsense,” Danarius demurred. “Fenris is very skilled. You will need a bodyguard as you move throughout Minrathous. He will serve you well.”

Hawke cleared her throat. “It’s just…” She sounded unsure for a moment, then her voice steadied. “I’d rather you take the collar off. I imagine it hinders his fighting capabilities.”

Fenris blinked at the floor, his head swimming with confusion.

“Oh?” Danarius said. “Well of course, Champion. Whatever you prefer.” He smiled and tugged the chain to beckon Fenris to his side. As Fenris knelt before his master, Danarius looked hard at him. He produced a key from one of his pockets and unlocked the collar, letting it fall to the floor. Fenris could not help the little gasp at this one glimpse of freedom he had been given. “You will serve her well,” Danarius said in a low voice, one finger under Fenris’ chin to lift it so that their eyes met. His face was pure steel before a smooth smile slid across his lips. He turned his attention back to the Champion. “My library is on the second floor. Fenris will be able to show you the way. If you need anything at all, any of my slaves will attend you.”

“You’re too kind,” Hawke said, smile brittle.

—

Danarius sent for Fenris at nine o’clock. He was in his study, sitting calmly at his desk while he rolled a small clay pot in his hand. Fenris entered and shut the door behind him, approaching the desk with his gaze properly lowered. “You called for me, master?”

“How do you feel with the collar off, my pet?” 

Fenris frowned, not sure how to answer. He said nothing, and Danarius thankfully, this once, did not press the issue.

“Undress.”

Fenris jerked his head up. Surely he wasn’t going to—but Danarius remained calm and clothed, his legs crossed and that little clay pot rolling back and forth across his thigh. Swallowing down the humiliation, Fenris slowly divested himself of his black armor, leggings, and underclothes, until he stood naked before his master. This was not new, but every time Fenris felt sick inside. 

“Come here.”

He swallowed hard. Maybe he had been wrong about Danarius’ intentions after all—but still Danarius remained clothed and collected. He came to a stop a foot from Danarius’ chair, and the magister leaned forward with a wicked curve of a grin on his thin lips. “You will serve faithfully, my pet,” he crooned. He opened the pot and set the top on the desk, and only then Fenris realized that his hands were gloved. The sharp, bitter tang of orichalcum wafted up from the pot and Fenris felt panic slice through his veins. What did his master have in store for him?

Danarius swiped two fingers into the pot and pulled them out, coated in a thick red gel. Fenris just barely suppressed a hiss as his master slathered the mixture onto his cock, root to tip, making sure no spot was untouched. When he was done, he pulled the gloves off and gently caressed Fenris’ cheek. “Get dressed, and go to the Champion’s room. Make sure to serve her well.” His smile was like a snake’s, wicked and cruel, but Fenris could do nothing but obey.

—

By ten o’clock, Fenris was going mad. His cock was thick and heavy in his leggings, desperate for touch. Every brush of his smallclothes on his heated skin was torture. He was panting, barely even registering it, and he hoped that the mistress would be quick so he could have some _relief_.

His master’s voice rattled in his head. “Serve her well.” He inhaled, tried to steady his breathing, and stopped pacing the room. With lightning-fast speed, he shed his clothes, placing them neatly in the corner of the room. The cool air was a relief to the throbbing between his legs, but as he dropped to both knees next to the bed, head lowered in supplication, he felt nothing but humiliation.

Finally, _finally_, the door opened and Hawke stepped inside, humming to herself. She shut the door behind her and took a few steps forward before she saw Fenris kneeling at the foot of her bed, his cock hard and leaking, wearing absolutely nothing. 

“Fenris!” she gasped, one hand going to her mouth. “I… you… what are you _doing_ here?”

His voice was like gravel. Her rich voice caressed him, and he felt her gaze like a lingering touch. “I am here to serve, mistress.”

“Maker’s breath,” she swore under her breath. She swept forward and pulled the duvet from the bed. With the ease of someone used to taking care of younger siblings, she threw the duvet over his shoulders and closed it in front of him, hiding his desperation from her. “Fenris, this isn’’t—I mean, I don’t—oh _balls_.” She chewed her bottom lip, still holding the duvet closed, unable to quite meet his wide, startled eyes.

_Again?_ How had he displeased her? Danarius would be so furious with him. Even more, his mind clouded with lust from the tincture, his will was breaking into tiny pieces when he realized that no, he would have no relief. Those lush lips and even lusher hips would remain out of his grasp. What would the Champion of Kirkwall need with a simple slave, after all?

He was so _hot_. His skin was on fire, and even though the duvet was between her skin and his, he could feel her like a brand on his skin. She was close enough that he could smell her, feel her warmth. He wanted nothing more than to take her, there on the floor, find his relief in the sweet swell of her body. He knew, _knew_ that this was the tincture and not his own will, but the red haze of lust seemed to block out every rational thought. Besides, she was a beautiful woman. He had been subjected to much worse.

Danarius’ face floated up to his mind, and he shuddered.

“Fenris?” Her voice broke through his muddled thoughts, and the way she said his name made it clear that she had been talking for some time while he was absent. 

His voice wavered, thickness in his throat. “This slave is here for your use,” he tried again, desperate for touch and unsure of how to convince her.

She frowned, and his heart dropped. “Fenris,” she said again, her voice low, and she gently cupped his jaw. Her touch was like fire, like lightning, scorching his skin and he was torn between leaning into the touch and jerking away from it. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. “What did he do to you?”

What? “Mistress?” His voice was confused, but thick with lust. Surely she could hear it.

“Don’t call me that. I am Hawke, and Hawke only.”

“I could never—“

She smiled tenderly, stroking over his jaw. He was trembling. “Hawke.”

His tongue was heavy in his mouth. This went against everything he had ever been taught as a slave, but his mistress commanded it, and he tasted the word in a whisper. “Hawke.”

“That’s better.” She leaned back, dropping her hand from his face, but keeping a tight hold on the duvet. “Now please tell me what this is about. Were you… were you _ordered_ here?”

“This slave is here for your use,” he repeated, his voice choked. Why was she being so _kind_ to him? Her kindness mixed with his raging lust left him awash with confusion, unsure of his place, what to do. “I—I— please, mistress.” He dropped his head, humiliated beyond measure that now he was _begging_ for her. 

Clinical, she let the duvet part and let her eyes drift over him. His stomach muscles were quivering gently with his efforts to stay still. His cock was heavy, thick, red between his legs, and she narrowed her eyes. He swallowed hard as she leaned forward and inhaled.

“Orichalcum,” she hissed, jerking to her feet and starting to pace. 

Fenris looked up at her, unable to stop himself, and felt her loss like a physical blow. “Mistress…?” he began, and at her sharp look he tried again. “Hawke.”

“I hate this place,” she said to no one in particular. Sighing, she turned back to Fenris. “Do you know how long it takes for this to wear off? Has he used it on you before?”

Fenris shook his head, tensing.

“It can last a full 24 hours if it’s not… er, attended to.” Her dark skin darkened further, the blush traveling all the way down to the hem of her robes. His mouth started to water as he let his eyes drift down, following the blush, desperately wanting to lick her collarbone. Then the reality of what she said crashed through him, and he felt despair. 

“Mis—Hawke. I… I cannot…” He floundered for words. The thought of 24 hours of this torture was unbearable. He would go mad, he was sure of it. Worse, Danarius would know that he had not served well. The punishment would be excruciating. 

She walked over to him and with hands gentle on his shoulders, she pulled him to his feet. They were of a height, but he refused to meet her eyes. He was panting again, desperate for more contact, her hands on his shoulders twin points of burning. “You don’t know me,” she said softly.

He didn’t reply.

“I am a stranger to you,” she continued. One hand left his shoulder and gently pushed under his chin to get him to lift his head. Startled, he met her eyes, and found himself absolutely lost in their grey depths. “You are a slave.” He felt the words like a slap, but she wouldn’t let him look away. “But this… this is cruel.” She looked so unbearably sad. “I won’t let you suffer, Fenris. Even though I am a stranger to you.”

Without further preamble, she pulled the duvet from his shoulders. The cool air kissed at his overheated skin and he shuddered an inhale. With gentle hands on his shoulders, she pushed him to the bed. For a moment he froze, Danarius’ face crowding his mind. He was not permitted a bed unless he was servicing the master, and the reality of what he was about to do momentarily cooled his ardor. 

“Fenris?” Her voice cut through his thoughts, and she looked at him like she understood his hesitation. She smiled and took his hand, leading him away from the bed and over towards the chaise lounge at the other end of the room. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said, sweeping an arm out in welcome. 

He was confused. Shouldn’t she be the one making herself comfortable? But the look she gave him set his insides aflame, and the slave inside him could do nothing but obey. He sat primly on the edge of the chaise, and she shook her head with a soft laugh. “Comfortable, I said,” she chuckled, pushing against his chest until he was leaning back. His cock lay swollen against his stomach, leaking, desperate for touch. 

She kneeled in front of him and his confusion doubled. With both hands on his knees she pushed his thighs apart and shuffled forward between them. He could feel her hot breath on his sensitive cock and he felt like he would explode out of his skin. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t—

But she did. She leaned forward and wrapped her lips around the head of his cock. He thought he would die. Stars exploded behind his eyelids and he ground out a curse. One delicate hand wrapped around the base of his cock and stroked counterpoint to her clever mouth and tongue. Blood rushed in his ears and there was nothing but the feel of her soft skin, her hot mouth, her roving tongue. He dug his fingers into her hair, pulling some of it free from her bun, and couldn’t help the weak, desperate thrusts of his hips. It was over too soon and not soon enough. He spent himself in her mouth with a shout, unable to warn her, and slumped back against the chaise with a whimper.

She demurely wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and casual like a true lover, she rested one elbow on his thigh and dropped her head into her palm as she gazed up at him. She didn’t say anything for a long while, letting him come back to himself. Finally, she asked, “Better?”

He opened his eyes, glassy and unfocused, and she saw the spark of desperation in them. She glanced down and saw that he was still painfully hard, though he tried to cover it with both hands. The touch was a torment. Everything was a torment. He was sure he was being flayed alive. 

“Cruel,” she murmured, pulling his hands away. He looked at her with panic in his eyes. How long would this last? How would he survive without her touch? With it? She was suddenly, inexplicably, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her lips were swollen from her ministrations. He suddenly, desperately, wanted to disrobe her.

He jumped to his feet, startling her and causing her to fall backwards. His hands were on her then, pulling her to her feet as he looked at her. “Hawke,” he said, voice strained. “Please, let me—please—“ Trembling fingers went to the buttons along her back, forcing him to hold her close to his chest as he did so. She stood still like a statue, and he could feel the softness of her breasts pressing against his bare skin. Finally the buttons were undone and he slipped the fabric from her shoulders. It slithered down her body and pooled at her feet, leaving her only in her breastband and smallclothes. 

“Hawke,” he murmured, leaning forward and pressing his lips to her collarbone. Deft fingers untied her breastband and let it also fall to the floor. She hitched a breath as he lowered his mouth to one nipple and laved his tongue over it. 

_Let me have this. Just this once_, he thought desperately. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would go back to being a slave. But tonight he wanted to be a man, tincture or no tincture, the look in Hawke’s eyes sparking something low in his belly. 

He led her back to the chaise lounge, lowering her onto it. He followed her down, one arm holding himself up beside her head, the other hand slipping under her smallclothes to rub at her. She was soaked, and his fingers slid inside her easily. She moaned, leaning her head back, and his teeth met her neck. 

“Hawke, I cannot wait,” he said thickly. She opened her eyes and met his gaze, a small smile playing about her lips. She shimmied out of her smallclothes under him, kicking them off and hooking one leg around his hip. The tip of his cock brushed against her wet folds and he nearly came undone, shivering at the contact. 

Fenris did not know how to be gentle, and the orichalcum in his system practically forbade it. He pushed forward until he was buried to the hilt with one vicious stroke, and she gasped and arched her back, brushing her breasts against his chest. The sweet heat of her was scorching, everything he had ever wanted and more. He immediately set a brutal pace, slamming into her over and over until the chaise was scraping across the floor. She groaned and whimpered beneath him, her eyes closed, and he lowered his head to her shoulder as he kept pounding into her. He vaguely heard her whisper his name, and then she lifted her hands to his cheeks and pulled him up to face her. In the next moment, she was kissing him, and it was sweet and soft in counterpoint to the way he was fucking her.

He stammered out of rhythm, eyes flying wide. He had never—no one had ever—this primal rutting was one thing, but nothing as intimate as a kiss. 

“Keep going,” she whispered against his lips. Her teeth dragged against his lower lip and he felt the heat in his belly flare over the confusion. He resumed his breakneck pace, losing himself in her body and her lips. His hand slithered between them and he rubbed brutally at her clit, just as rough as his lovemaking. Within moments she was panting, gasping his name, and a minute more and she was muffling her scream in his shoulder. He kept pounding into her, so close, so close, and when at last her shivering subsided he followed her over, grunting a string of curses in Arcanum as he spilled inside her. 

He stayed still for a moment as they caught their breath, and he could feel the pleasure/pain of the tincture finally wearing off. Gingerly, he pulled out of her, and she opened her eyes and smiled, bright eyes and messy hair. 

“Better?”

He averted his eyes. “Yes. Thank you, mistress.” He was a slave again, the reality of what he had just done hitting him like a brick. This was what Danarius had sent him for, and he had serviced her well. This was his purpose. 

But she had shown him such kindness. She had touched him gently, taken him into her mouth when he was suffering, let him abuse her body when he was in the throes of his lust. She had kissed him, evoked feelings in him that no slave had any business experiencing. He swallowed and walked over to where his armor was laid out.

She walked over to the duvet and pulled it around herself. Her eyes looked sad as she watched him dress. 

_I am a stranger to you. You are a slave._ Her words echoed in his head, making him ache. Yes, he was a slave. And a slave lived to serve, and he had served faithfully. That was all.

Fully dressed, he walked to the door with heavy steps, his eyes on the ground. “Thank you, mistress,” he said again. She did not respond as he pulled the door open, stepped out, and closed it behind him. Once the door was closed he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and whispered, “Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blatantly stole the idea of the tincture from loquaciousquark's [Crucible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/626988), which you should read immediately. I hope they don't mind.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that I pretty heavily skewed the timeline of the game, making Hawke the Champion of Kirkwall early and having the game's Act III span five years instead of three. I also moved a few things around so that they made more sense in the timeline. Hopefully it's not too jarring.
> 
> This chapter's music: [Lindsey Stirling ft. Elle King - The Upside](https://youtu.be/R8ALe-nVzd8)

His master did not treat him with the tincture again, and for that Fenris was deeply grateful. And yet, as days slipped by, Hawke was treating him differently. She treated him like a familiar acquaintance, an old friend, a man and not a slave. It was awakening feelings he long thought dead, his first memory being receiving the markings and after that, a slave’s life and nothing more. He found himself _wanting_, desperately, and it scared as much as thrilled him. It was not a slave’s place to want, and yet…

He startled when she looked up at him, realizing he had been staring and hastily averting his eyes. He missed her small smile, but looked up again when she called his name.

“Fenris. Would you do me a favor?”

He immediately went to her side and took a knee, keeping his face lowered. “Anything, mistress.”

“Fenris,” she scolded. He swallowed hard when he felt her hands on his arms, tugging him upright until he was standing again. He looked at her, unable to help himself, losing himself in the endless grey of her eyes. “You know I want you to call me Hawke. And I don’t want you to kneel.” She stood so they were facing each other. “I know you are a slave,” she said softly. “But with me, you are but a man. I want you to remember that.”

His gut twisted. Danarius would be _furious_ if he heard this. The punishment would be severe, and yet, and yet…

“Yes. Hawke.” He tasted her name on his tongue, savoring it, and filed away her warm smile for when he would be alone. As time passed and he spent more hours with her, he found that he was inexplicably drawn to her.

He wanted… anything. To reach out to her. To kiss his name from her lips, to tilt her head back and mark her dark skin with his teeth. He wanted to undress her and investigate every curve and swell of her body, taking his time with no tincture spurring him on, devoting himself to her pleasure. He wanted to see her hair down around her shoulders, run his fingers through it, tie it around his fist as he bent her over the desk and slid into her.

“Fenris?” His name cut through his thoughts and his cheeks darkened as he realized the turn he had taken. It was clear she had asked him a question, though he knew not what it was.

“Forgive me. My thoughts were… elsewhere.”

She smiled and for a moment he was convinced she could see through to his deepest thoughts, his wanton desires. “I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about Minrathous. You’ve lived here and seen much, and I… well, I need help.” She took his hand, sending a spark of lightning running across his skin, and moved him to sit in a chair across from her. She took her own seat, crossed her legs, and propped her chin on her hand. “I think you’re the only one I trust here,” she admitted quietly.

_I would do whatever you wished_, he didn’t say. “I am at your disposal,” he said instead.

They spent the next two hours in deep conversation. He tried to answer her questions as best he could, using the knowledge he had gained from serving a powerful magister of the Imperium to guide his answers. She seemed particularly interested in the concept of apprenticeship. His gut roiled when he gave all the information he could about Hadriana and her situation in the household. 

Hawke hummed, and he felt it in his chest. “What if one was to break an apprenticeship?” 

“It isn’t done,” he said matter-of-factly. “They aren’t slaves, but they are owned. They give their life to the magister as soon as the apprenticeship begins. But,” he added, “no one would willingly break an apprenticeship and a chance to become a magister themselves.”

She abruptly stood and started pacing the room, her hands clasped behind her back. He watched her, curious and confused. “This is going to be harder than I thought,” she said at last, mostly to herself. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, brow furrowed. 

“Hawke, why are you here?” Bold, too bold by half for a slave, and yet he couldn’t keep the words from slipping out. 

She turned to him and smiled. “Why, to charm handsome elves off their feet, of course,” she said with a playful lilt. His eyes grew wide, and he flushed to the tips of his ears but did not respond. She winked at him, then went serious. “I suppose I can tell you, but you can’t breathe a word of it to anyone else. Especially not Danarius. I know that I am putting you in an awkward position, torn between two people, but this is important.” She came to him and, in a move that shocked him into further silence, knelt before him and took his hands between hers. She looked so earnest. “I trust you. And I hope that you can do this for me.”

He pulled one hand free and lifted it to rest against her cheek. It was madness, he should never presume, but he couldn’t help himself. The tips of his gauntlets scratched over her skin, but his bare palm touched her cheek and sent fire through his veins. “Anything,” he murmured, staring into her eyes. Thoughts of Danarius were so far from his mind that he felt only this bond to her, and he would follow her through fire itself if she asked.

Closing her eyes, Hawke leaned into his touch just the slightest bit before pulling away and standing again. “I’m here to save an apprentice,” she said quietly. “He is a somniari, and the Circle in Kirkwall was going to make him Tranquil. I didn’t know what else to do, so I sent him here. I thought, hey, the most powerful magical city in the world. They have to know what to do.”

She laughed without humor and started pacing again. “I was a fool,” she said bitterly. “It’s all blood magic and power plays here, and he’s afraid that the magister he is serving under is going to abuse his powers. I told him I would come for him, but Maker knows I don’t have any idea how to get him out of here.” She waved her hands weakly. “I put him here, and now I can’t even save him.”

Fenris stood and moved towards her, placing a hand on each of her shoulders to get her to stop pacing. “This isn’t your fault,” he said.

She looked at him with a wry expression. “Isn’t it?”

“You saved him from becoming Tranquil in the only way you knew how. I am sure he is grateful for that.”

Hawke smiled then, genuine, and took one of his hands in hers. She leaned forward and buried her face in his neck. He could feel the brush of her eyelashes, the heat of her breath, and for one second he thought he would go mad. 

And then he was sure of it, because without thinking he lifted her face to his and sealed his lips over hers. She gasped into his mouth and he only kissed her harder, his arms slipping around her waist, one hand splaying across the small of her back until they were pressed tightly together from shoulder to thigh. 

He had lost all reason. One of the slaves, or even Danarius himself, could walk in at any moment, and yet he still ran his tongue over her lower lip and swallowed her moan. She was boneless and warm against him, her hands carding through his white hair. He pulled from her mouth and rested his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath.

—

Three weeks had gone by. Sometimes she read while he stood vigilant, still like a statue, next to the door of the room. Sometimes she insisted that he sit down and she would talk, tell him stories of her life and her home and her friends. She would ask him questions, but he had no memories prior to the markings and said so. She seemed so sad at the thought, but then she always seemed sad when reminded that he was a slave. She never acted like it towards him, never said anything about it since that one night, and he always felt warmth blossom in his chest when she spoke to him like a human being instead of something lower.

“You know,” she said one day after a few hours had gone by in silence. “I hate that you just stand there like a gargoyle. Don’t you get bored?”

Less so lately, when he allowed himself to stare at her openly and let his thoughts drift. “I am here to serve,” he said, frowning, as if there was anything else he could do.

She made an unhappy noise in her throat. “Come sit down,” she said, and he did so, obediently. “Don’t you want to read or something to make the time go by?”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Slaves are not permitted to read. I have never learned.”

“It’s not too late to learn, Fenris,” she said gently.

“My master would not allow it.” His master would not allow a lot of things, least of all him sitting in a chair chatting with her like they were equals. He was frustrated with Danarius and himself and even Hawke. If things were different…

Hawke’s voice cut through his melancholy thoughts. “I could read to you, if you like. I doubt he’s got _Hard in Hightown_, but there’s got to be something interesting in here that isn’t magical theory,” she said drily, holding up the book she had been reading herself. 

He loved her voice like an addiction, and the thought of her reading to him was irresistible, especially when she offered it so freely, with no hint of sympathy. 

“I… would like that.”

“Excellent. Let’s find something worth reading, shall we?”

—

Feynriel found her a few days later in the Fade, and by the panicked look in his eyes, she knew something was very wrong.

“I’m here,” she assured him before he could speak. “I’m in Minrathous. I still haven’t figured out a way to get to you, but… I’m trying.”

“You have to hurry,” Feynriel said, breathless. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“A shipment of elf slaves arrived this morning. Only a few days ago, my master said he had something big planned for me. He wouldn’t tell me what it was but… why does he need so many people? It has to be blood magic, Hawke. He is going to sacrifice those slaves, and he is going to bring me into it, and I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s not going to happen,” she said firmly. “We’re going to get you out of there before he does anything.”

“But how?” Feynriel sounded desperate, hopeless. “How will you get to me? How will I get out?”

“I’ll find a way,” Hawke said, voice like steel. “I promise.”


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying so hard to post this slowly and let interest brew, but I'm so damn proud of this story (highly unusual, if you know me) that I just can't help putting more out there. 
> 
> Another mention of non-con in this chapter (I mean, we're in Danarius' house. It can't be helped.).
> 
> Chapter Song: [Krewella - Come & Get It](https://youtu.be/0iFR754-E98)

She was blushing, and he was blushing, but she didn’t stop. 

“”Oh Thomas,” she whimpered. “Your touch has me on fire. Please, more.”” Hawke’s voice was high pitched yet throaty when she read in the voices of the characters. “He reached down to her hot core and—“

“I cannot listen to this,” Fenris said abruptly, standing. “It is… inappropriate.”

Hawke started to laugh. Hysterically. He felt himself bristle. “What is so funny?” he demanded.

“Oh, I was just thinking of our first night together, and how _inappropriate_ that was,” she giggled.

They had never spoken of that night, and he flushed to the tips of his ears. “That was different,” he insisted, turning his back to her. 

“Was it? Because I didn’t speak dirty to you? I could remedy that, if you like.” Her voice had dropped a register, and he felt more than heard her approach. His heart was hammering in his chest; he was sure she could hear it. Worse, her casual words were bringing up all kinds of fantasies and he felt tense, coiled like a spring.

She touched him. Just a fingertip, pressed to the part of his spine exposed by his armor, and he spun to face her. “You are playing a dangerous game, Hawke,” he said, voice low and more threatening than he intended.

“Am I?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head and - Maker help him - licking her lips.

He was on her in an instant, sweeping her into his arms. She kissed him hard, fervent, her arms twining around his neck.

“Fenris,” she moaned - _moaned_ \- and something feral rose up inside him at the soft kiss of his name on her lips. He growled and lifted her, eliciting a sharp gasp of surprise, and with three steps he had her sitting on the desk as he stood between her thighs. He was on her again, kissing her with a sort of frenzy, leaning forward until she was propped up by only her elbows on the desk. He raised a hand to her breast, rasping the finger of his gauntlet over her nipple, and she arched under him. He was hard, desperately hard in his leggings, and _Maker_ how he wanted her.

There was a knock at the door. He flew upright and skittered backwards, his eyes wide and scared and deeply embarrassed. 

“A moment, please!” Hawke called. She quickly moved to the chair, smoothing her robes and her hair, but she couldn’t hide her kiss-swollen lips or the flush across her face. 

He wanted to die.

He moved to the corner of the room, discreetly adjusting himself to alleviate what little ardor he had remaining with the threat of detection so imminent. The door opened, and one of the dainty blonde elf slaves walked in with a tray. She did not look at him, and for that he was grateful.

“My master thought you might be hungry, since you have been here all afternoon,” the elf said quietly. She placed the tray on the desk and bowed low.

“Famished, thank you,” Hawke said, glancing over at Fenris for a moment with a grin. He swallowed, his heart beating out of time. Was she actually _flirting_ with him, in front of this slave? This slave who could run to Danarius and sell them out in a moment? 

The slave bowed again and left, shutting the door behind her. Fenris visibly relaxed, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. This was dangerous. Too dangerous. He had to control himself, control his desire for her, remember that he was a slave and she was his mistress and this… infatuation could go nowhere. 

“Do you want an orange?” Hawke asked, holding it out to him. All the passion was gone, replaced by her normal kindness and solicitation towards him. He shook his head, and she shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She began peeling it, and he was enraptured by her long, dextrous fingers, remembering them on his cock—

_No_. He forced the thought away. 

Time passed and he stood in agony, fighting himself, while she ate the bread and fruit brought for her. She seemed completely unconcerned, reading the book she had earlier abandoned. An hour passed, and at last another slave came to announce that dinner was ready. Hawke nodded and assured the slave she would be down momentarily. She stood, stretched with her arms above her head, and Fenris’ mouth went dry at the sight. She turned to him.

“I’m giving you the night off,” she said. “I don’t know what you do for fun, but I think that you could use some.” She smiled gently at him. “I’ll smooth it over with Danarius, don’t worry.”

He stumbled on clumsy feet toward her, overcome by her unending kindness. How did he explain that slaves didn’t have _fun_? That they existed for their master’s use and nothing else?

“And Fenris,” she added, stepping forward until they were close, too close, and his heart was hammering in his chest. “I am… inviting you. To come to me tonight. You’re under no compulsion,” she added quickly, frowning. “I’m not asking you as a slave. I’m asking you as a man. And if you don’t come, I won’t be offended. But… the offer is open should you want it.” 

Should he _want_ it? He could think of little else, and this invitation made him heady with desire. 

“Just… think about it, okay?” She seemed so small, so hesitant, and he desperately wanted to pull her into his arms and swear he would be there tonight and every night if she would have him. “I better go,” she smiled. “They might think I died up here with my nose in a book. Enjoy your evening, Fenris.” She did not touch him, and he ached for it, but said nothing. Then she was gone, sweeping out of the room and leaving him with the scent of her perfume and the torment of this thoughts.

—

Fenris went to train, not knowing what else to do. He needed the physical activity after, well, _everything_, and it felt good to swing his sword and fall into the steps of his training. His mind went blessedly blank as he swung again and again at the training dummy in the yard.

And yet it wasn’t enough. Her words, her offer, replayed over and over in his head, taunting him. He was truly torn. If Danarius found out, it would be a nightmare. He didn’t know what his master would do if he found out what was developing between him and Hawke, the kind way she treated him, the way she saw him as a man and not a slave. He knew the punishment for himself would be severe, but it hadn’t been the first time, nor would it be the last. Instead, he worried about what Danarius would do to her if he found out. Would she be banished from his home? What would happen to her mission with the apprentice? He had to resist, had to keep away, had to protect her from himself and his master.

The night wore on, and finally, his muscles aching, he strapped his sword to his back and went downstairs to the slave’s quarters. He entered his bare room and placed his sword in the corner with care. He was desperate with longing, thinking about Hawke upstairs, _waiting for him_. With a muttered curse he threw himself down onto the bedroll on the floor, not even bothering to take off his armor, and squeezed his eyes shut. He willed himself to be strong.

But he was not.

It was madness, dangerous. But he could not stay away from her. He found himself upstairs, outside her door, without even remembering how he got there. Steeling himself, he knocked twice.

She cracked the door open, half of her face visible as she glanced out to see who it was, and when she realized it was him she swung the door wide and pulled him in. “You came,” she said breathlessly. “It’s so late, I… I didn’t think you would come.”

She was a desire demon sent from the Fade itself to tempt him. She was in a low cut nightgown, red silk, that cut off mid-thigh. He let his eyes drift over the lines of her bare legs, all that brown skin making him want to drop to his knees and worship her. He didn’t know where to look. He was drawn to the swell of her breasts, nipples already hard and prominent through the red silk, and the smooth curve of her full hips. Her hair was still in its normal severe bun, but tendrils of hair had escaped to frame her face.

Hawke let him ogle a bit, but a flush was spreading across her cheeks. “You’re staring,” she laughed.

“You are a vision,” he ground out, his voice low and gruff. He stepped forward until there were bare inches between them. “We should not do this,” he said, voice a tad desperate.

“I know.” 

“If Danarius found out—“

“I know.”

“I… cannot control myself around you, Hawke. It is a madness, a compulsion—“

She pressed a finger to his lips. “You don’t need to hold back.”

The dam burst. He swept her up in his arms, pressing his lips to hers in a hard, desperate kiss. He pressed a gauntleted hand to the back of her neck, his other hand sliding to her waist, the metal kissing against silk. She was hungry against him, hungry for him, and she met every swipe of his tongue. Her hands smoothed over the back of his chest plate before coming to rest on his waist.

“Wait,” she gasped, pulling back from his lips. He jerked back like he had been burned. “No, no,” she assured him, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just… I want to go slow. I want to _make love_ to you, Fenris. If you’ll allow it.” She paused, smiling. “Call me a hopeless romantic.”

Who was a slave to allow anything? And yet… yes, this was what he wanted. He wanted to take his time. This was nothing like the frenzy of fucking her under the effect of the tincture. This time he would devote himself to her pleasure. 

“Yes,” he murmured, running a hand over her shoulder. He pushed the silk aside and leaned forward to press his lips to the newly-exposed skin. “I… do not know how to be gentle, Hawke. Danarius—“

“Is not here,” she interrupted firmly. “And whatever he may force you to do, it has no place here. I am not Danarius.”

He stared at her. “No, you are not,” he said at last.

“So let’s leave him outside where he belongs, and focus on us,” she said with another smile. Her fingers skipped down the seam of his armor, looking for the buckles. “I have a desperate desire to see you naked,” she whispered hot in his ear. He groaned, and she grinned against his earlobe before licking from lobe to tip and back again. She sucked his ear into her mouth and his knees went weak. 

“You will kill me, Hawke,” he panted. Already he was hard and aching, desperate for more and yet desperate for it never to end. She fumbled with the clasps of his armor, making a frustrated noise, and he pushed her fingers away so he could do it himself. The breast plate fell away, and he unhooked his gauntlets and let them fall too. Before he could go further, she grabbed one of his hands and lifted it to her lips.

“I love your hands,” she whispered, kissing his palm. He watched as she pulled one finger into her mouth and sucked on it. His mind immediately went back to the first night, her lips on his cock, his hips desperately thrusting. He had more plans with his fingers tonight, if she would allow it. Judging by the sultry look in her eyes, she would allow that and more. 

She released his finger and he slid both of his hands to the straps at her shoulders. Hooking a finger into each one, he pulled them off her shoulders and guided them down until her arms were free. She lifted her arms above her head, and the nightgown slid down her body to pool at the floor. She was wearing nothing underneath, and at the sight of all that skin laid out before him, he felt weak for her. He barely knew where to begin. 

“One of us is terribly overdressed,” she smirked as she moved to lie on the bed. 

He hurried to undress fully, pulling his leggings down and off. He felt such relief on his thick cock when it finally sprung free. He took a step forward and hesitated. He was only permitted on a bed when Danarius had… use of him. Suddenly his master’s face came to his mind, and he felt sick. 

“Fenris?” Hawke asked, concerned when he went still and silent, his eyes betraying his terror. “What’s wrong?” She sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, taking one of his hands and holding it to her face. 

“My master only permits me in a bed when… when he…” He faltered, unable to put it to words, but Hawke looked like she understood. She stood up and, in a move that surprised him, hugged him tightly to her. 

For a moment he did nothing, shocked into inaction. He had never just been… hugged. There was no comfort for a slave—but here he was no slave. His arms came up to wrap around her, and he rested his head against hers. They stood like that for several minutes, her hand caressing along his back, before she pulled back enough to look at him.

“There’s a perfectly serviceable rug in front of the fire, if you’re still interested. Romantic, don’t you think?”

This woman. _This woman_. She was an angel and a demon and amazing in every way, and she would destroy him. He swept her into his arms, carrying her bridal style as she laughed. He walked over to the rug and gently deposited her onto it. He sat beside her as she lay there, one leg bent, pillowing her head on one arm. She looked at him with sparkling eyes and grinned. “See something you like?”

“Yes,” he said honestly. “Hawke… I wish to… touch you.” 

“I’m yours, Fenris.”

His, like it was so easy. But with Hawke, it was. 

He started at her shoulders, running his fingertips down each arm and lifting her hands to his face to press kisses to her fingertips. His fingers swept over her collarbone, then down the valley of her breasts to the smooth plane of her stomach. He caressed every inch of skin, and she was warm and pliant beneath him. He took her bent leg and swung it up so that her ankle rested on his shoulder, then kissed the inside of her calf. He was gentle, reverent, savoring every intake of breath and soft sigh. Placing her leg back down, he moved to her breasts. They were full, spilling over his palms, and beautiful like the rest of her. Her dusky brown nipples were tantalizing, and he leaned down to suck one into his mouth. He teased the peak with his lips and tongue, rolling her other nipple between his fingers until she was writhing beneath him. Her legs were closed but he could smell her, musky and sweet, and suddenly he was desperate to have his mouth on her.

Running his fingers across her skin every step of the way, he situated himself between her thighs, which opened at a touch. She was looking at him, her eyes hooded and wanting, and he needed her, needed her like air, needed her pleasure and his name on her lips. He was not tentative but he was gentle, swiping his tongue from her entrance to her clit, and she groaned low in her throat. 

For a while he worked her only with lips and tongue, and she was writhing, her hands buried in his hair. When she moaned his name, he slipped one finger into her wetness, then a second. Her back arched sharply and her thighs squeezed around his shoulders. She was tight around his fingers and for a moment the throbbing between his legs would not be ignored. But he pushed down his own ardor. This was for her. Her pleasure first. 

He thrust his fingers in and out of her while he sucked on her clit, his ministrations becoming quick and merciless. She was whimpering, moaning, whispering his name like a prayer. Finally she gasped out, “Fenris, I—I’m close.”

He crooked his fingers inside her and pulled his mouth from her clit with a pop. “Come for me, Hawke,” he growled, as if he had the right to give orders. He dove back down on her, eating her like a man who had been starved for years, and finally she clamped down on him, pressing a hand to her mouth to muffle her screams. He fucked her through it, desperate for her pleasure, and at length she started to shiver from his mouth on her sensitive flesh. 

He pulled his fingers free and, looking her in the eyes, licked each one clean. She flushed deeply, glancing away before forcing herself to meet his eyes. She surged upright, pulling him against her and back again so that he was laying completely over her, and kissed him hard, tasting herself on his tongue. “You are _unbelievably_ sexy, I hope you know,” she laughed into his ear. In return, he bit her shoulder, worrying the skin between his teeth. “And your voice,” she continued, breathless. “I think I could come from your voice alone.”

“Oh really,” he murmured, amused and painfully aroused. “We’ll have to test that,” he added, as if there was a future, as if they had time. For tonight, he could pretend.

He sat up on his haunches and tugged her waist forward as she wrapped her legs around his slim hips. “Maybe we will test it sooner than I thought,” he amended, an almost-grin on his face. So close, his cock was downright aching for touch, but he wasn’t ready for this to be over. He took himself in hand and very slowly, very deliberately, pressed the head of his cock against her clit. She bucked under him with an oath. 

“Sit up,” he commanded, tugging her waist with his free hand. “Sit over me.” 

She did, dazed, her thighs on either side of his. She was spread wide for him, and he gave another slow push with his cock on her clit. He leaned close to her ear, whispering hotly into it. “Do you like this, Hawke? Do you like the feel of my cock on you? Do you want more?”

He pushed slowly, running the whole length of his cock over her clit. She whimpered and nodded. “More,” she pleaded. “Oh _Maker_ Fenris, more.”

His hips found a smooth rhythm as he held the base of his cock and started to rub back and forth against her. He leaned down and bit a nipple, rougher than he intended, her heat and willingness and eagerness for him making him mad with want. He wanted nothing more than to sink into her, take her, mark her as his own. Her hips moved counterpoint to his, her pace quickening as she drove against him. 

“Talk to me,” she gasped, clawing at his shoulders. 

“You are so beautiful,” he said in a low voice. “I want to take you here, in front of this fire. I want your heat around me. I want to hear you scream my name when you come. I want you bent over the desk in the library while I fuck you hard. I want you in the garden, surrounded by the orange trees. I want you on your knees with my cock in your mouth. I want to lick and suck you until you are weeping with it.” The words flowed out of him, unchecked, all the wants and desires he had been harboring over the past weeks coming from him in a rush. A distant part of him wondered if she would be put off, but he couldn’t stop now that he had started. “I want to tie you to the bed and explore every inch of your body. I want you bound, helpless against me, mindless with the pleasure I give you. I want you, Hawke,” he finished in a growl, and to his surprise she keened and started shuddering against him, coming again from the combination of his voice and his incessant rubbing against her clit. 

“Fenris!” she cried, her face pressed into his neck. 

He smiled, a feral, victorious thing, and let her come down again, stroking her back.

“You’re good at this,” she accused, narrowing her eyes at him playfully. And maybe he was—he had had no lovers save what Danarius commanded of him since the markings were created, and if he had them before he could not remember. Yet he seemed to be driven by muscle memory and a bone-deep desire to see her come over and over. 

He was quiet for a moment, feeling almost shy despite the fact that his cock was still pressed against her heat. “I… have a request.”

She shifted against him and he groaned at the rub of her cunt on his sensitive flesh. “Anything.”

“I wish to see your hair down.”

A smile to what he felt was a foolish request. “Easy enough,” she said, lifting her hands to the bun. She plucked pins from it for a moment, tossing them on the floor next to them, and then her hair was free, spilling over her shoulders in waves, kissing the tops of her breasts. 

She had never been more beautiful.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, marveling at the silky texture, and he was so reverent and idolizing that she felt almost embarrassed. She allowed him a few minutes of exploration, and she was just about to speak when he suddenly wrapped a thick lock of her hair in his fist and jerked her head to the side. She startled, but then groaned when his teeth found her throat. He kept her held that way with his hand in her hair as he ran his teeth and tongue over the sensitive flesh of her neck. 

“Fenris.”

“Mm,” he murmured against her neck, but did not stop.

“_Fenris_.” She tugged at his elbow and he finally let go of her hair and lifted his eyes to hers.

“Mm?”

“This is nice and all,” she said conversationally as she slid a hand between them. Her fingers closed around his cock and he jerked forward into her hand, oversensitive and wanting. “But if I don’t get you inside me soon, I _might_ go a bit insane.”

He understood that better than he could say with her clever fingers working over his heated cock. She teased at the head, licking along his ear, and he hissed.

It surprised him, though perhaps it shouldn’t have, when she shoved both of his shoulders hard enough that he fell backwards onto the rug. She readjusted herself above his hips, holding herself just out of his cock’s reach. He placed his hands on her hips and she leaned on his shoulders, head coming down enough that her hair splayed across his chest. Slowly, so painfully slowly, she sunk down onto him, and they both groaned as he slid home. 

The heat of her was magic. It felt a hundred, a thousand times better than it had when he was under the effects of the tincture. She sat still for a moment, letting them both adjust as their quick breaths filled the room, and then she started to ride him. She was exquisite and he was lost to her merciless movements, only able to snap his hips up in counterpoint to hers and grip her hips tightly enough that she would have bruises the next morning. Despite her two orgasms she was earnest, aching, desperate to come with him inside her. 

“Hawke,” he moaned, unable to wait, unable to think, unable to do anything but lose himself in wet heat and the electricity coiling in his belly. As if she knew what he was asking for, she quickened the pace, and soon he was slamming into her, her breasts bouncing with every thrust. He released one of her hips and reached between them, his finger rubbing and pressing at her clit. She would come first. He was determined. He bit back the overwhelming pleasure and rubbed her mercilessly in time to his thrusts. He was not gentle and neither was she, both lost in each other. “I want you to come for me,” he gasped. 

She laughed breathlessly. “Again?” 

He pinched her clit between two fingers and she whined in her throat. “Again,” he growled. 

And she did. As he gave her a particularly brutal thrust combined with another pinch on her clit, she exploded around him. Her head fell back, exposing the skin of her throat, and she keened his name in a desperate cry. It was all he needed; he was following her over, spilling hot inside her. He bit his hand hard enough to draw blood to keep the shout in his throat. 

When they were both spent and sated, she pulled from him and slid bonelessly to his side, her head on his shoulder as he wrapped one arm around her back and held her close. “You magnificent man,” she murmured into his shoulder.

He had no words for her. She was unlike any woman he had ever known, and his tongue tripped over itself as he tried to think of any way to convey just what she meant to him. He could not, so he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and said nothing.

Slowly, like the dull ache of sobriety kicking in, the reality of their situation came back to him. Despite how she made him feel, despite what she said, he was still a slave. Nothing would change that, and he felt the twist of a knife in his heart. How would he ever, ever be able to go back after the freedom she had shown him?

“I should go,” he said quickly. 

She looked up at him, eyebrows raising. “But—“

“If Danarius finds me here—it is too dangerous.”

Her eyes were so _sad_, as if she had come to the same conclusions he had. She traced a finger over his cheek and leaned up to kiss him, gentle and caring and poignant enough to almost bring tears to his eyes unbidden. She stood, reaching a hand out for him, and he took it and pulled himself to his feet. They both dressed in silence, too much between them for words that had to remain unsaid. When his armor was securely back in place, he turned to her.

“Hawke…” he began, faltering.

She shook her head, stepped forward, and pulled him into a tight hug. Unable to stop himself, he wrapped his arms around her and breathed in the strawberry scent of her hair. They stood like that, saying nothing, for a long time before he forced himself to pull away.

“Good night, Fenris,” she said with a soft smile. “Sweet dreams.”

He knew his dreams would be full of her, as they often were. He reached up for her face, cupped her cheek, then turned and left the room, heading back to the slave’s quarters.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Lovage - Sex (I'm A)](https://youtu.be/j9mrwpz-wOs)
> 
> Guess that kind of gives the chapter away, doesn't it?

They were playing a dangerous game, and yet Fenris couldn’t stop himself.

It was a matter of time before Danarius found out, and Maker knew his wrath would be great, and it felt like both an immediate and a distant threat. Fenris would retreat to his quarters at night and swear over and over that he would end this infatuation, that he would stay away from her, that he would crawl on his knees before Danarius and beg him to assign her another slave. But then the next morning would come, and she would sweep into the library with a warm smile _for him_, and he was lost all over again. 

It was madness. It was torture and heaven and Fenris felt himself unravel every time he was in the same room as her.

Dinner time was hardest. He stood against the wall, eyes lowered, listening to her sonorous voice as she conversed easily with Danarius. One would never be able to tell from her casual way of speaking to him the hatred she felt for the man. She never once looked at Fenris, and he forbade himself from looking at her, and he could almost pretend he was impartial until her laughter made his heart jump in his chest. 

Complete madness.

He had slept fitfully, his dreams haunted with memories of her skin, her mouth, her body open and wanting beneath him. He had awoken hard and needy, but he forced it down as he got dressed and prepared for the day. He hadn’t realized how early it was until he was on the second floor and it dawned on him that he hadn’t seen a single slave on the way. 

Hawke was probably still asleep, in her red nightgown, her hair splayed over the pillows. _Venhedis_.

He stepped into the library and closed the door behind him, trying to corral his thoughts. Maker knew how long he stood there, fighting himself for control, thinking he had mastered himself until the moment the door opened and she walked into the room. 

He was on her in an instant, slipping behind her and gripping her waist with one hand hard enough to bruise. His other hand slapped over her mouth to muffle her startled cry. Maker help him, he was hard already, pressing his hips forward to grind his cock into her sumptuous behind. He leaned forward and licked the shell of her ear, then smoothed his lips down to press a kiss to the back of her neck. She shivered in his grasp, and he definitely couldn’t fail to notice the way she ground back against him. The friction on his cock was delicious, and he wanted more of her, so much more.

He spun her around to face him, and the blush on her cheeks and look in her eye were enough to undo him. She smirked. “I’ve had less enthusiastic greetings.”

“I have been thinking of you,” he growled, reaching up to tweak a nipple. “I have been unable to think of anything else.”

“That feeling, I assure you, is mutual,” she grinned. 

He leaned down to kiss the grin off her face, his lips hard and demanding. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and swallowed her moan. His hands were everywhere: along the curve of her hips, palming her breasts, smoothing down over her ass. She was an eager lover and responded to his every touch as if she was drowning in it. 

At length she pulled away with a breathless laugh. “Wait,” she said, pulling his hands from where they were both squeezing her nipples between metal-clad fingers. She disentangled herself from him and he felt her movement away from him like a physical blow. She walked over to the door, tossed him a saucy look over her shoulder, and placed her hand over the handle. It lit blue and a sheen of ice spread from her fingers, freezing the door shut. 

“At least we’ll have some warning if anyone tries to come in,” she explained as she sauntered back over to him, hips swaying in the most tantalizing fashion. 

He didn’t care if Danarius himself came in, he was so lost in his lust for her. He stalked across the room and grabbed her again, kissing her feverishly. She broke the kiss and tilted her head back, giving him access to the neck he could never get enough of. He laved his tongue over her skin, but didn’t dare bite here, where a mark would be noticed. Instead he tugged down the sleeve of her robe and sunk his teeth into her shoulder, worrying the skin until she was moaning with it. When he pulled away, he felt a thrill of satisfaction at the mark he had left there.

_Mine_.

He could not remove his gauntlets though he desperately wanted to, in case anyone did come in, but she seemed to welcome the scrape of metal across her skin. Suddenly he picked her up, carrying her over to the desk where he deposited her less than gracefully. Books and papers crumpled beneath her, but he neither noticed nor cared. He rucked up her skirts as he leaned down to her chest, biting at her nipple through her robe. She keened softly, digging her hands into his hair, wrapping both legs around his hips.

His fingers shook as he struggled with the laces on his leggings, cursing when it took too long, _too blasted long_, and she gave a breathless laugh. Her eyes went dark when his cock, thick and flushed, finally sprang free. He grabbed her arms and pulled her upright, startled, then spun her around and pushed her chest down on the desk. Her ass was divine, and he could see the wetness of her soaking her smallclothes. These he ripped down to her knees, and he ran a hand over her flesh. His fingers dipped between her folds, the metal scratching the delicate skin there, and she moaned his name.

He could not wait.

Gripping her hips hard, he fiercely pushed himself inside her, and they both gasped at the feeling of his thick cock in her heat. “I cannot be gentle,” he warned, breathless, too wound up to treat her with the care and respect he knew she deserved.

“I don’t want you to be,” she said over her shoulder. “I want you to fuck me, Fenris. Hard. Now.”

He slammed into her again and again, shaking the desk, fueled by need and the muffled gasps and moans she was letting loose. His fingers dug into her ass, leaving small pointed indents in the skin. She fit him so perfectly, like a velvet glove, hot and wet and everything he could ever want. He suddenly had a desperate desire to see her face, _see_ the pleasure he was giving her, and he pulled free with a gasp. “Turn around,” he rasped.

She didn’t object or hesitate. He swept her smallclothes from her legs and grabbed one calf, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder. The sight of her spread open for him, her eyes dark and wanting, her hair tousled, was sweet torture. He slid back into her, and she arched her back. Again he found his rhythm, brutal and punishing, and she gave and took everything he had. He turned his head and bit her calf, hard, and then she was coming, his name on her lips and her cunt squeezing him tightly. It only took a few more moments for him to follow her over and spill inside her.

He dropped his head, panting, the madness of his lust for her finally abating somewhat. She slid her leg from his shoulder, stood up, and retrieved her smalls. “You know,” she said conversationally, as if she hadn’t just been fucked within an inch of her life on a desk, on _his master’s_ desk, “I wouldn’t mind starting my morning like this more often.”

Lacing up his leggings, he let loose a low laugh. “You will be the death of me, woman,” he said. 

“We’ll see,” she smiled.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Where Do We Go Now But Nowhere](https://youtu.be/mtfyXBWyqOc)

Feynriel had not been to see her since his last panicked warning. Hawke wondered if that was a good or bad thing. She rather expected to see him every night so they could plan, but she hadn’t exactly been doing much planning when Fenris was around, she thought guiltily. She had come to this blighted city to help a friend, but instead she had gotten caught up in…

Well. Whatever she and Fenris were.

Her bed felt too empty. Not that he had ever slept in it, but her mind taunted her with visions of him curled against her back, an arm around her waist, a hand splayed across her stomach. Messy hair and a sleepy smile when he woke up, a rumbled “good morning” in that voice she could listen to until the end of time. She let her mind wander, imagining him at her estate in Kirkwall, reading with her in the study, sitting with her on the balcony, having dinner with her mother.

_Maker_. She felt like a lovelorn fool.

A small part of her wanted to wander down to the slave’s quarters to find him. Reason squashed that thought as quickly as it came; it was too dangerous by half, and she had no explanation for why she would be there should Danarius or one of the other slaves find her there. “I suddenly need bodyguarding,” was ridiculous, especially at two in the morning.

She wondered if he was sleeping well, and what he was dreaming about.

Sleep. That was what she needed to do. She had the bare outlines of a plan, and she needed to find Feynriel soon. Sighing, she turned over onto her side, nestled the covers under her chin, and closed her eyes.

Her dreams had been empty since she had arrived in Minrathous, the Fade full of sickly green light and spires of rock sticking out of the ground like jagged teeth. Sometimes she wandered around looking for Fenris, but she was no somniari, and his dreams always stayed well hidden from her. 

She wandered to a cliff’s edge and looked down at the skittering blackness below. She always felt the presence of demons hovering just outside her periphery, but she didn’t fear them anymore. She could take care of herself. So she thought, anyway, and to test her resolve she bent down to pick up a rock and hurled it into the darkness. The Fade echoed with angry screeches.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

She spun around, relieved. “There you are,” she said feelingly. “Maker, where have you been? I was convinced something had happened to you.”

Feynriel had the grace to look sheepish, twisting his fingers together in front of his stomach. “I’m sure I frightened you,” he said quietly.

“Well, yes. ‘Help, the magister is collecting elf slaves to sacrifice in a blood magic ritual to end all rituals’ doesn’t exactly sound good. What happened?”

“He didn’t do the ritual. Yet.” Hawke exhaled a relieved sigh as Feynriel continued. “But he will, and soon. He’s… preparing something. He won’t tell me what. I think he’s missing something, a reagent or more slaves or Maker knows what. But it’s stopped him. For now.” His voice turned desperate. “Hawke, we have to do something, immediately.”

“As it happens, I have an idea.”

Feynriel tried to keep his expression schooled, but she saw the flare of hope jump to his eyes.

“Does your master ever let you go to parties?”

He looked confused. “Yes. He likes to parade me around in front of the other magisters.”

“Excellent!” Hawke clapped her hands together, smiling. “One of the magisters is having a party in a week. What’s his name. Archibald… Amorous…”

“Ahriman?”

“Yes! That’s it. My gracious host has procured invitations for us both. Now we just need to get your man to do the same. I figured we go, do some mingling, and sneak out before anyone notices. I’ll have Fenris get us passage on a boat to Kirkwall. Maker willing, you’ll be a free man in seven days.”

“It sounds too easy,” Feynriel said uncertainly.

“These things always are,” was her flippant response. “Something will probably go wrong. It usually does. But we’ll have Fenris with us; he won’t let anything happen to me. Er, us. He won’t let anything happen to us.”

“Who is Fenris?”

She scratched her nose and looked away, suddenly feeling shy. “He’s my… uh…” Ignoring the romantic notions spinning around in her head, she went for cold truth. “He’s the slave Danarius assigned to serve me.”

Feynriel waved his arms. “Even worse!” he cried. “He’s one of Danarius’ slaves, why wouldn’t he go running to his master the second you asked him to get you passage on the boat? Hawke, it will never work.”

“He’s not like that,” she insisted. How to explain without telling the whole torrid story of their affair? “He’s… loyal to me. He won’t sell us out.”

He looked at her, hard, searching. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“Absolutely.”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Then I’ll see you in a week.”

—

“I need to go into the city,” Hawke said without preamble as she breezed into the library the following morning. Fenris raised both eyebrows. She hadn’t gone out more than a handful of times since she arrived, always with Danarius at her side and Fenris trailing silently behind them.

“It’ll be just the two of us,” she added, then, with a smirk, “Like a date.”

“Slaves don’t have dates,” he said harshly. 

If she noticed his bad temper, she didn’t comment. Looking at her, it was clear that her mind was occupied. “I need you to do something for me while we’re out.”

“Yes?”

“I need you to book passage for two on a ship to Kirkwall. After midnight, seven days from now.”

His heart dropped, and he fought against the sudden wave of despair that washed over him. Seven days. “So soon?” he gritted out.

“It’s been almost two months, Fenris,” she said gently, moving over to him and taking his hands. “I can’t stay here forever.”

Every instinct screamed to jerk his hands away and storm out of the room. Years of slave conditioning kept him rooted to the spot. “Of course,” he said, hollow. “You have a plan, then?”

She filled him in on her plan and her meeting with Feynriel. He only half listened despite his best efforts. He could feel screams of “no!” beating in time with his heart. Worst of all, she seemed completely unconcerned. She looked as if she wanted nothing more than to leave this place - and, he thought, that was probably true. She had never made a secret of her hatred for Minrathous, Fenris or no Fenris. But the thought of losing her now was nothing short of devastating. 

“So anyway,” she continued, jerking him out of his melancholy thoughts. “I need to get something to wear to this party. Somehow I think this—“ she motioned to her simple mage robe “—just won’t cut it. Will you come with me?”

“I have been assigned to you,” he said, deadened. “I will go wherever you wish.”

“Stop that,” she scolded softly, squeezing his hands. “You know it isn’t like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

He didn’t miss the hurt in her eyes. “Is that what you really think?”

Cursing softly, he pulled his hands from hers and spun so that his back was to her, running a hand through his hair. “The thought of you leaving—“

He stiffened when she wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her cheek against his back. “I know. But Fenris, this has to be done. This is what I came here for. I hope you understand.”

A vision of his master’s face, lit with a cruel smile as he tugged the chain to Fenris’ collar, as he ordered wine to be poured, as he forced Fenris to kneel while he sucked the lyrium dry, floated behind Fenris’ eyelids. That was his future. That was what he had to look forward to when she was gone.

She would never understand.

He disentangled himself from her grasp, refusing to meet her eyes. “We should go before it gets busy.” 

She didn’t try to touch him again, and he felt the loss acutely. “Yes,” she said.

—

He led her to the tailor in silence. She seemed to understand his need for quiet; what could she say, anyway? Nothing could soothe the storm of his thoughts, and he suddenly, desperately wished to be in the training yard with his sword. Training dummies, at least, were a foe he could beat. Not like this sorrow, this _hopelessness_, that gripped his heart tighter than any gauntleted hand.

He stood stony next to the door while she conversed with the tailor. He kept his eyes forward and deliberately did not watch as she tried on dress after dress, the tailor offering comments and advice when she seemed unable to decide. He forced himself to ignore her as she stepped up on the dais and let the tailor take her measurements. The despairing whirlwind of his thoughts continued unabated, and it was only via the last shreds of discipline he had remaining that he was able to not drop to her feet and beg her in a broken voice to stay.

Finally, she was done, and the tailor promised to have the garment delivered to her at Danarius’ mansion in a day or two. It was only after she snapped her fingers in front of his face twice that Fenris came back to himself and realized she was talking to him.

“Will you take care of…” She glanced at the tailor, who was busily working behind the counter. “The, ah, errand we spoke of earlier?”

“And let you wander the city alone?” he said harshly, forgetting himself. 

She smiled at him. “I am going to the cafe next door. You can meet me there when you’re done. I promise not to wander off.” She dropped a coin purse into his hand. “This should cover it.”

He felt sick but even now, he could not refuse her. “I will return.”

—

At least, Hawke thought, the food in Minrathous was good. Sure, the city was full of magisters fighting for power and blood magic and angsty elves that she wanted to wrap up in a hug, but the food was good. She thought back to her time in Lowtown when the best they could manage was hard bread and even harder cheese, or, when they were lucky, a decent bowl of stew. It seemed a million miles away, now.

Her heart ached despite herself. She had known Fenris would take it hard - she wasn’t ignorant of the way he felt about her, mirroring her own feelings - but she hadn’t expected him to be so distant, so angry. She had thought that he would instead turn desperate and needy, like _she_ felt, anxious to take advantage of every moment they had left together. The thought of him treating her so coldly, turning back into a slave and not _Fenris_, her Fenris, made her want to cry.

Hell, she wanted to cry anyway.

But the food… the food was good. She forced herself to enjoy the little assortment of fruits - far more exotic than anything in Kirkwall - cheeses and meats. Next to her plate was a small parcel wrapped in a red cloth. She took a sip of tea - not her mother’s, but it would do - and waited for Fenris to return.

He was not gone long. Just as she was finishing the last of the grapes he rounded the corner, two pieces of paper clutched in his metal fist, and his eyes sought her out. He moved to her table, slammed the two tickets down, and stood just behind her. 

“I would have saved you some grapes, but I was hungry.” He didn’t say anything, but she didn’t think he would. “Thank you,” she added, standing up and safely depositing the tickets in her purse. “The coin I gave you…?”

“It was enough,” he said gruffly.

“Good. Good. I guess we better get back.” She swept up the little wrapped parcel and started to move away—in the wrong direction.

Fenris grabbed her arm and spun her around. “Fool woman,” he hissed, eyes blazing. He looked even more incensed when she only smiled at him. She was happy to get a reaction - any reaction - besides stony silence. 

He quickly let her go, remembering where they were. “The mansion is this way,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. She started to walk, and he kept three steps behind her, his eyes lowered, like a slave should.

When they got back to Danarius’ mansion, he started to leave her, excuses on his tongue. But she cautiously brushed his arm with her fingers. “Will you come with me for a moment?”

He wanted to say no, _itched_ to have his sword in his hands, but he followed her still. She led them to the library and shut the door. Once they were safely alone, she held out the wrapped parcel. Confused, he took it from her, looking at her curiously. 

“A peace offering,” she said by way of explanation.

He unwrapped the parcel and inside was a perfectly ripe persimmon. His favorite, he thought distantly, and had he told her that? He felt the knot in his chest ease into something like gratefulness, something like affection. “Thank you.”

She smiled. “Go train,” she said, like she knew that was what he wanted. “I’ll see you at dinner.”


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Bright Eyes - First Day of My Life](https://youtu.be/xUBYzpCNQ1I)

It rained for three days. Highly unusual for Minrathous.

Danarius had left the estate on business, assuring his guest that he would only be gone a couple of days at most. Fenris was overjoyed; without the constant threat of his master discovering them, the tightness in his chest eased somewhat. He didn’t have to suffer through their inane conversation at dinner; Hawke took her dinner in her room. Her room was like a little haven for them. She would sit on the floor with the tray of food beside her, eating daintily, sometimes feeding him with her fingers. He would curl around her like a cat, his arm around her waist, his cheek on her shoulder. In these soft moments he could pretend they were normal lovers, but it made his heart ache.

On the third day, Danarius sent word that he was unexpectedly delayed with a thousand apologies. 

“Darn,” Hawke said as she read the note aloud. She looked up at Fenris with laughter in her eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile at her.

They had dinner, and with a heavy sigh, Hawke said, “I want to go outside.”

“It’s raining.”

“I won’t melt. It rains all the time in Kirkwall. Besides, I saw a hedge maze when I arrived. I’ve always wanted to wander one of those.” She reached a hand out to him, and he took it without hesitation. “Come with me?”

As if he would be anywhere else.

She walked to the hedge maze and he followed a respectful distance behind her, as a slave would, knowing that every other slave’s eyes were on them. But then they disappeared into the maze and she took his hand, tugging him to her side as they began to wander. She was full of joy and laughter, lifting her face to the rain with delight, her hair plastered to her skin. 

“Are you going to rust?” she teased. 

“I could disrobe, if you prefer,” he deadpanned. 

“Don’t tempt me.” She leaned up and kissed him quickly on the cheek, then resumed wandering. Her happiness was like that of a child’s, and yet his heart felt light with it. How he loved to see her smile.

They found themselves at a fountain. It was lovely, marble, two lovers holding each other at the top. “Look, it’s us,” Hawke said jovially, hooking her arm around his. 

He flushed and looked away.

There was a bench at the foot of the fountain and Hawke flounced down onto it, resting back on her hands as she looked up at the sky. Looking at her, he felt… something. Tender, almost. His feet took him to her without his willing it, and he knelt down before her. “Hawke,” he said.

She looked down at him, her head canted to one side, a warm smile on her face. “Fenris.”

“I want—I wish—“ The words wouldn’t come. A slave didn’t want. A slave didn’t wish. The party was only two days away. His desires were meaningless, and he felt such despair. 

“I see where you’ve gone,” she said softly, lifting her hands to cup his cheeks. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. He almost felt like crying. 

“I am yours,” she said against his forehead. “Always.”

“You can’t be,” he gritted out, hating himself for it. 

“And yet,” was her smiling rejoinder. She tilted his face up to hers and kissed him, so sweet, so gentle, so full of promise. He, who had made a living ripping people’s hearts out of their chests, felt his own tear open. 

“Let’s go back inside,” she said. “It’s raining.”

—

The night before the party, Fenris thought he might die. It couldn’t end. He couldn’t let her go. How would he go on without her? He paced his slave cell, back and forth, back and forth, cursing himself and Danarius and even Hawke. Midnight had come and gone, he hadn’t seen her since dinner, and he felt every minute that ticked by without her as a loss.

There was a rap on his door. When he opened it, one of the slaves was there, looking put out. “Mistress Hawke would like to see you. She said it’s urgent.”

“I will go,” he said. He left his sword behind and obediently went upstairs, knocking softly on her chamber door. 

“Come in,” Hawke’s voice came from within.

When he entered, his jaw nearly fell to the floor. She was sitting on the bed in only a flimsy satin robe, rubbing her hair with a towel. She had clearly just been to the baths. “Fool woman,” he said. “It could have been anyone, and you only in—“

She waved him off. “I knew it was you.” 

He stalked forward, gripping her arm and pulling her to her feet. “How?” he growled.

She didn’t seem bothered by his temper, offering him a cheeky grin in response. “Woman’s intuition.” Some of her humor faded and she sighed softly. “I wanted to see you.”

He felt his stomach twist. “I… as well,” he admitted. 

She slipped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest. “I guess this is our last night, isn’t it.”

He didn’t want to admit it, never wanted to admit it, but as his arms rose to hold her close to him, he said quietly, “Yes.”

She lifted her head to meet his eyes. “I left my hair down for you.”

So she did. He reached for it, pulling some of the wet locks towards his nose and inhaling deeply. He kissed the lock of hair and twisted it around one finger.

She blushed and looked away. “You’re so weird,” she chastised. 

“I love your hair,” he said honestly, moving both hands to scratch his gauntlets against her scalp. He got to see it so rarely, it was like a special treat. It made her look softer, more feminine, and while he found her beautiful hair tied up or no, he got special pleasure in getting to run his hands through it. 

“Fenris, I have a question.” She sounded so serious, she immediately got his attention.

“Yes?”

“If you’re not in your quarters in the morning, will anyone notice?”

He thought about it. True, he usually rose well before the rest of the slaves to train in the yard. He was never bothered at night. Yet it was dangerous, so dangerous, but she was leaving tomorrow and—

“Are you asking me to stay?”

“If… if you want to.” She was so hesitant, almost _shy_ \- which was ridiculous for all they had done together - and there was nothing in this world or the next he wanted more.

“I… cannot sleep in the bed with you, Hawke,” he said, regret heavy on his tongue.

“Then we won’t sleep in the bed,” she said easily. She walked over to the bed and began stripping it. After a moment’s hesitation he joined her, and together they made a nest on the rug in front of the fireplace. She left her hair down as she sunk down into the nest and laid on her back, the gap of her robe offering a tantalizing view of her cleavage. “Sleep with me,” she said, extending a hand to him. “And I mean that in both the literal and metaphorical sense.”

He couldn’t get his armor off fast enough. He didn’t even have it in him to feel embarrassed when he lowered his leggings to expose his cock, half-hard from just the sight of her laying like that. Once he was naked, he sunk down on the nest next to her. “You are a beautiful woman, Hawke,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss along her collarbone. He nosed the silk out of the way and kissed down her chest, drinking in her soft sighs. 

Slowly he slid both hands over her stomach and up to the gap in her robe. His fingers slipped under the silk and pushed until her breasts were exposed. He gave them careful, deliberate attention until she was gasping in her throat, squeezing her thighs together. It was only then that he undid the sash and let the robe fall completely open, showing she had nothing on underneath. “Vixen,” he muttered, and she laughed. 

“I want to try something,” she said unexpectedly as he was sliding down her side. He looked up at her, arching a questioning eyebrow. “Lie down.”

“I wanted—“ he began, and she shushed him.

“I know what you want. But I think we want the same thing, you and I.”

He was confused, but he lay back on the blankets as requested. She sat up and after giving him a sultry look, wrapped her fingers around his cock. He was fully hard in an instant, her cool fingers like a balm on his overheated skin. And then she was swinging a leg over his hips, her back to him, and he marveled at the smooth lines of her back and her firm backside. He couldn’t resist running his hands over her coffee brown skin. But she had more surprises in store for him, always more surprises, and he watched with wide eyes as she scooted backwards and leaned forward until she was on all fours over him. He could smell her, and his mouth watered. 

She took him in her mouth without hesitation, sucking him down until his cock hit the back of her throat. He muffled a curse in her thigh. Her hips were swaying back and forth, like she wanted something—and suddenly he got it.

Her pleasure was as important to him as his own, and he always wanted to make sure she knew it. Ignoring the way his cock was throbbing in her mouth, he reached up and hooked his arms around her thighs, then pulled her down. Immediately he went to work with tongue and lips and teeth on her cunt, and she whimpered around him. 

It was almost like a competition. He was determined that she would come before he did, but she seemed just as intent. She swallowed him down again and again, and he couldn’t help the way his hips snapped forward anymore than she could control the way she ground down on his face. She rolled his balls between her fingers, pressed against his perineum, dragged her nails along his thighs. He worked her clit relentlessly, and dove two fingers inside her slickness. 

It didn’t take long for her hips to start bucking in his grasp, her hums around his cock making him wild. He crooked his fingers inside her as he swirled his tongue around her clit and then she was coming, her lips sliding off him while she cried out. Even through her orgasm she had the wherewithal to keep stroking him even if she wasn’t sucking him, and with only a few strokes more he came across his belly and - so humiliating - her face.

She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she looked like the cat that had gotten the canary as she turned around and sat on his thighs, streaks of cum across her nose and cheeks. His face was flaming - Maker but she looked good like that, marked like she was his - and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her senseless. 

“Bit of a mess,” she said blithely. She pulled up a corner of the blanket and wiped her face clean. He immediately felt the loss, but said nothing, was forced to say nothing when she suddenly leaned down and started to lap his stomach clean. 

“Hawke,” he said in a strangled moan, but she looked up at him through hooded eyes and very deliberately licked a stripe of cum from his quivering stomach muscles. Maker, he was getting hard again. How was this possible? What did this fool woman do to him?

When she was done licking his stomach, she turned her attention to his cock, standing at half mast. She took him in her mouth again, careful since he was sensitive, and gave slow pulls with her lips and tongue until he was fully hard again. 

He wanted to be gentle, knew in the back of his mind that this would be the last time, but he _wanted her_. He surged up and grabbed her by the arms, kissing her fiercely, each tasting themselves on the other’s tongue. After a moment he spun her around and pushed her forward to her hands and knees. He pressed a thigh between hers, opening her for him, and lined himself up. The moment he entered her was pure bliss, and for a moment he was overcome. 

She started to move, leaning forward and back again, and his hips thrust forward in time with her movements. He leaned over her, caging her with his arms, and roughly palmed her breasts. She looked so good like this, arching beneath him like a cat, her every curve on display for him and him alone. As their rhythm picked up pace, he abandoned one breast to instead wrap her hair around his fist. She gasped as he jerked her head to the side and viscously sunk his teeth into her shoulder. He wanted her to feel it, wanted this reminder of himself on her when she was gone. 

Their lovemaking turned desperate, frantic, as if both had realized simultaneously that this was the last time. He pressed a kiss to the back of her sweaty neck, then the center of her back. She was chanting his name like a spell, each iteration more breathy. He could feel that electric coil in his belly tightening, tightening, expanding to fill his chest, and with a shout he pressed into her shoulder he came, hard enough that his vision turned white, and he was only vaguely aware of her coming just after. 

He pulled from her and flopped to her side as she sunk forward to lie on her stomach with her head propped on her folded arms. They were quiet for a while, his hand smoothing back and forth over her back and through her hair.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said softly, her eyes closed.

His throat constricted and his gut churned unpleasantly. Losing her would be tantamount to losing himself. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t say it. He was determined to be strong for her.

“Come here,” he said instead, wrapping his arm around her waist and tugging her forward. She arranged herself so that her head was nestled on his shoulder, one thigh draped over his legs, her arm around his waist. He held her tightly with an arm around her shoulders, the other hand stroking her hair. “Sleep, Hawke,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I will be here when you wake.”


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be sad together.
> 
> Chapter Song: [Tom Waits - Take It With Me](https://youtu.be/Dixxse4dpQ4)

Fenris had been dismissed, called to his master’s side instead, to allow a female servant to help Hawke dress for the party. He stood, silent and unseeing, against the wall as Danarius flitted around the sitting room, making his final preparations.

_“The damn thing has too many buckles,” she had said laughingly the night before. “I don’t know how these people do it every day.”_

After so long, too long, the door to the sitting room finally opened and Hawke walked in. “Good evening, Danarius,” she said with a stunning smile. “Thank you so much for inviting me to this party. I’m so sorry I have to leave so soon, but my cousin is so ill…”

“Of course. Think nothing of it. You look divine,” Danarius said, taking her hands and laughing. Fenris felt sick.

She did _not_ look divine. She looked every inch a Tevinter magister, the robe so similar to his master’s, her hair tied severely. For a moment Fenris felt a thrill of fear - how could this be the woman he cared so much about? She was another mage, another _magister_, another powerful being sent to destroy him. But then Danarius turned to the side table, her eyes caught his, and she smiled, small and private. 

One of the slaves approached with a cloak in her hands, and she swept it over Hawke’s shoulders and clasped it at the neck. The slave then helped Danarius with his own cloak, and with Hawke at Denarius’ side and Fenris trailing at their heels, they made their way to the carriage outside.

The ride there was pure torture. Hawke and Danarius chatted amiably, ignoring Fenris completely. He was at his master’s side, across from Hawke, and instead of looking at her - _Tevinter_ robes, _Tevinter_ magister - he stared gloomily outside the carriage window as the city rolled by. After what felt like an age, they pulled up to the Ahriman estate and disembarked from the carriage. 

The slaves did not meet his eyes, and the guests’ eyes slid over him like water, and he felt invisible as they entered the main hall and he slunk into the corner to stand among the other slaves and watch.

Hawke did not seem in the least bit uncomfortable as Danarius led her around the room and made introductions. She smiled and shook hands and carried on conversations and Fenris’ already black mood darkened more and more with each of her laughs. The music was playing quietly and he watched, sick with jealousy, as she danced first with Danarius, then with five other magisters. He could hear her over the music and the chatter proclaim that she was exhausted, pressing a hand to her forehead with a laugh, and she wandered over to one of the slaves and retrieved a glass of wine.

Then she was next to him, and his heart stuttered.

“Having a good time?” she asked behind the rim of her glass.

He bristled, but kept his expression neutral. “You know I am not.”

“Neither am I.”

“You… certainly look like you are.”

She smiled. “Keeping up appearances, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said hastily, looking around them to make sure she hadn’t been overheard. “You should not be talking to me at all.”

She sighed, and he could see the beginnings of a pout forming on her lips. He wanted to reach out to her, wanted to touch her, wanted to do anything at all. Thankfully, before he could do some mad thing that would have gotten them both exiled, she straightened and gasped. “There he is!”

He followed her eyes across the room, where a young man in his own ridiculous Tevinter robe stood, nearly cowering behind a magister. His long blond braid was unusual enough, but Fenris saw the pointed ears of a half elf and knew this was the infamous Feynriel. 

“Maker,” Hawke breathed. “How am I supposed to get him alone?” She bit her thumbnail, thinking. “I don’t suppose you—“

“No,” Fenris interrupted. “I cannot.”

“A girl just has to do everything herself,” she sighed, and without another word she disappeared back into the crowd.

—

She didn’t have a plan.

Oh sure, she had bits of a plan. She had the boat tickets securely tucked in her breastband and the knowledge that Fenris was watching every move, but between her brazen bits of comfort in the Fade, it had never occurred to her that somehow, she would have to get Feynriel alone when they ostensibly did not know each other.

Well. Charm had served her well before, and she just had to trust that it would see her through this.

She approached the magister and Feynriel and did not miss the way Feynriel’s eyes widened like she was a dream made flesh. She supposed she was, at that. It had been six months since she had seen him last in person, watching as his boat pulled away from the docks and away from the Tranquil threat.

“Excuse me,” she said with a smile. “I don’t mean to be bold, but I am trying to get to know everyone here and my escort seems to have disappeared.” She dropped into a courtesy. “Alice Hawke, at your service.”

The magister put on an oily smile and bowed at the waist. “Magister Theme, pleased to make your acquaintance. This is my apprentice, Feynriel.”

Feynriel stepped forward and lowered his head. “Mistress Hawke.” She was impressed that his voice didn’t shake; he had to be coiled with nerves.

Hawke and Theme fell into conversation and for the moment, Feynriel was forgotten. But when Theme mentioned that his new apprentice was a somniari, her hand flew to her mouth and she opened her eyes comically wide.

“I thought they were only a legend!”

“Oh no,” Theme sneered. “The lad is quite skilled.”

An opening at last. “I don’t suppose you would let me borrow him for a moment, would you? I have so many questions.”

Theme bowed his acquiescence. “Of course.” He turned from them and disappeared into the crowd, and Hawke threaded her arm through Feynriel’s and led him to the, blessedly empty, balcony.

As soon as they were alone, Feynriel turned to her with a desperate look. “Please tell me everything is ready,” he pleaded. 

“Just so,” she said with a smile. “Let me gather Fenris and we’ll get out of here. Freedom awaits, my friend.”

—

Somehow, inexplicably, they managed to escape the Ahriman estate without being noticed.

The walk to the docks was silent. The streets were nearly empty as it was approaching midnight, but Fenris kept a wary eye on everyone they passed. Feynriel donned a cloak with a hood he kept pulled up to hide his tell-tale long blond hair and elven ears. The air was thick with tension and nerves.

At last, the ship Hawke and Feynriel had booked passage on came into view. They hurried their steps as much as they could without drawing attention to themselves. Feynriel boarded first at Hawke’s prompt, but she hesitated, turning to Fenris.

“Come with me,” she said, unable to keep the pleading from her voice.

“You know I can’t,” he replied. There was a knife twisting in his gut, made worse by the desperate look in her eyes. 

“I know. But—“ She broke off, scrubbing angrily at her face. “I hate the thought of you going back to him. I hate the thought of being hundreds of miles away.” 

He wanted to reach for her, but restrained himself. “What you have given me these past two months is beyond anything I could have dreamed,” he said in a low voice, raw honesty in every word. “I will treasure it.”

He gasped in surprise when she threw her arms around him and pulled him close, sealing her lips to his in a fierce kiss. His restraint broke and he cradled her face in his hands as he returned the kiss. He didn’t care if Danarius’ spies or the Maker himself was watching. He would have this, this last thing, this goodbye.

Finally she pulled back and her eyes were shining with tears she would not shed. “You are a good man, Fenris. Don’t let them take that away from you. Not ever.” With one last squeeze of his fingers she turned her back on him and boarded the ship, never looking back.

He did not stay to watch them leave. His old life awaited, and this glimpse of freedom was over.

When he arrived back at the mansion, he was surprised to see Danarius waiting in the vestibule for him, the collar he had gone without for two months held in one hand. “Welcome back, my pet,” he said with a smile like a knife. He crooked a finger for Fenris to follow as he strode into the sitting room. He swept into a seat and narrowed his eyes when Fenris waited a moment too long to bend the knee and avert his gaze.

He felt as though he would be sick as Danarius fastened the collar around his neck. It felt constricting, too tight around his throat. Two months…

Danarius’ voice cut through his thoughts. “So, my little Fenris,” he drawled, sitting back and steepling his fingers. “It appears you have grown quite fond of our guest.” He felt a flash of heat, of terror, as Danarius drew an ornate dagger from the sheath on the side table. “A little too fond, I think. A man could get jealous, you know.” He fondled the dagger, running a fingernail down the blade.

“You are my master,” Fenris said, the words thick in his mouth. 

“I am,” Danarius agreed. “But perhaps you need a reminder.” He wrapped the chain to Fenris’ collar around his fist and jerked it forward such that Fenris’ chin nearly rested on the magister’s knees. “Don’t worry, my dear one,” Danarius cooed. “In the morning, Hawke will be as nothing to you. I assure it.” He lifted the dagger again and in a quick motion sliced across his palm. Blood oozed up, twisting in on itself as Danarius began the spell. 

“No—“ Fenris gasped. _Don’t take her from me_, he thought wildly. 

Danarius slammed his palm onto Fenris’ forehead, the blood sticky and hot, and with a flash Fenris fell to the ground in a heap.

“Take him to his cell,” Danarius ordered the two slaves who stood at the door. 

In the morning, Fenris felt hollow, like something had been removed from him. He vaguely wondered if Hawke had made it back to Kirkwall, then wondered why he cared. His head ached something fierce, but it was seventh bell and Danarius would be expecting him.

Danarius smiled with something like affection when Fenris entered the room. “Good morning, my pet,” he said warmly.

Fenris did not hesitate to go to Danarius’ side and kneel. “Master,” he said, and Danarius patted him on the head like he would an adorable child or a favored dog. 

He was a slave, and he would serve. That’s what slaves did.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the beginning of Act II. Less smut and more feelings, so buckle up.
> 
> Incidentally, Varric is my favorite character in this story. He is so fun to write. I hope I got his brand of humor and caring right.
> 
> Chapter Song: [Diablo Swing Orchestra - Climbing the Eyewall](https://youtu.be/Njub2FHjozc)

** Act II **

The last of the Fog Warriors gurgled his last breath, and Fenris stood surrounded by bodies on every side. His gauntlets dripped with blood and his eyes were wild and feral. Danarius was behind him, splayed on the ground, bleeding profusely from a wound on his side. 

He was panting. He knew, _knew_ Danarius would come for him eventually. Even so, he had lived six months in blessed freedom at the Fog Warriors’ side. And yet he had turned on them at a word. As he looked down at his fallen comrades, those he had come to respect and love, he felt desperation in his throat. He couldn’t go back. He could _never_ go back. 

Danarius had passed out, and Fenris took his chance. He ran, ran, ran, ran until he gasped for breath and then ran some more. He didn’t stop running until he had reached a little port town of no consequence. He slumped down in an alley behind the inn and ran his fingers through his hair. 

What was he going to do? He had no money, no contacts, nothing but his greatsword at his back and a terror in his stomach. Where would he go? Where could he be safe?

_Kirkwall_.

The thought rose unbidden to his mind. A vision of Hawke floated behind his eyelids like a half-remembered dream. She was the Champion of Kirkwall. She had been kind to him. Surely she would help him now.

He had no other choice.

—

Fenris had been in Kirkwall for three weeks. He had stolen enough coin to secure a room at the Hanged Man, and he spent most of his time holed up in the room, seeing no one and asking for nothing. He had not yet worked up the courage to see Hawke, though her name seemed to be on every person’s lips. He had walked past her estate twice, both times turning in almost a run from its doors lest she see him.

It was inevitable that Danarius’ cronies would find him here, too.

They ambushed him by the docks in the middle of the night. There were so many of them, and he was alone, and he was desperate. That desperation is what won him victory, but at a dear cost. One of the hunters had speared him right through the middle. He panted and leaned against a wall as he yanked the sword free and let it clatter to the ground. A stomach wound, so not fatal. But perhaps fatal if he bled to death on the cursed docks. He staggered forward.

His shuffling steps took him to Hightown, so slowly and so painfully. He stopped in front of Hawke’s estate, looking up at the dark windows and wavering from side to side as another wave of dizziness hit him. 

Oh Maker, he was going to bleed to death on Hawke’s front steps. What an idiot.

Those were his last thoughts as he sunk to the ground and darkness took him.

—

“Fine, _fine_ you overgrown puppy. Will you just give me one second—Crowley! Heel!” Hawke tried to be commanding, but Crowley never fell for it. He kept bounding circles around her, head butting her every time she tried to slip her pants on. She finally got them on and tied the sash of her robe tighter around her waist. “Okay, come on, you monster,” she groused as she headed down the stairs. It was still so damn early and she had hoped for a couple hours’ more sleep at least…

She opened the front door and Crowley dropped on his haunches, letting loose a low growl. “Maker’s breath Crowley, what is it now?” she said with exasperation. She looked around him and _sweet Andraste_ there was a pile of man outside her door, laying in a pool of blood. The armor looked vaguely familiar to her, but it wasn’t until she dropped to her knees and turned his face towards her that she gasped. “Fenris?!”

He opened his eyes, those moss green eyes she had fallen for almost two years ago, and blearily looked at her. “Hawke,” he rasped. 

“Maker’s breath, it _is_ you,” she breathed. “What are you doing here? What happened? Why are you bleeding on my front step?”

“I—“ he started, but then his head lolled back and he lost consciousness again.

“Bodahn!” she shouted into the house. “Bodahn, come quick! Bring Sandal!”

Between the three of them, they got Fenris upstairs and, at Hawke’s insistence, into her bed. She requested towels and hot water from Bodahn and privacy once these were delivered. 

“You’re going to hate this,” Hawke told Fenris matter-of-factly. She leaned down and worked the buckles of his armor, stripping him of his gauntlets and breastplate. The leather tunic underneath was soaked with blood, and she bit her bottom lip as she carefully removed that too. She was proud of herself for not ogling his naked chest and remembering their nights together so long ago, and instead looked at him clinically, like a doctor would. There was a very deep puncture wound six inches across on his stomach, and it still oozed blood around the edges. The blood was crimson, which was good; the weapon hadn’t been poisoned. 

She wet one of the towels and began gingerly wiping away the blood and dirt from the wound. She tried so hard to be gentle, but she could tell by his furrowed, sweaty brow and his fingers gripping into fists so hard his knuckles were white that it was deathly painful for him. “Are you awake?” she asked.

“Yes.” His voice was like gravel over broken glass. He cracked open one eye to look at her.

“I need to heal this.”

“No!” he spat, jerking his hand forward to wrap around her wrist. “No magic. Please,” he added somewhat sheepishly. 

“Fenris, you’re bleeding everywhere. I’m not a surgeon, I can’t just—“

“No magic,” he said again. “The markings, they—“ He drifted off, looking away and biting his lip. 

“Fenris, listen to me. I’ll be gentle. You won’t even know it’s happening. But I _have_ to heal this, or get you to a doctor. It’s your choice.”

He looked at her, wild desperation in his eyes, and said nothing.

“I’m not Danarius,” she said softly. “Do you trust me?”

“I feel like I should,” he said hesitantly, and she raised both eyebrows at him. “I… I feel like we were close. That you were kind to me. It’s all blurry, jumbled, I can barely remember—“

“I could rip that magister’s heart out,” she muttered under her breath. She had spent two years refusing to take a lover - much to her mother’s dismay - and dreaming fondly of an elf slave that she could never see again. And now that elf was here, in her bed, and he had been taken from her. Or rather, she had been taken from him. It was almost funny if it didn’t make her heart twist so unpleasantly. 

“You _can_ trust me,” she said in a normal register. She would curse the heavens and Minrathous and Danarius and the Maker himself later, when she was alone. Now, she had a job to do. “I know you haven’t had the best experiences with magic, but I promise this won’t hurt.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then nodded once. 

She held her hands an inch over the wound and closed her eyes, focusing her mana. Soon the room was suffused with a soft blue glow as magic poured into him and his skin began to mend itself. 

But she had only been healing for a few minutes when suddenly he began to flash like lightning, the lyrium tattoos going haywire. His eyes flew open and he gasped for breath. She immediately pulled her hands away and out, as if to ward off a blow. “I’m sorry!” she cried. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—I mean, you kind of warned me, but I didn’t realize how much— does it hurt?”

“Pleasure and pain,” he gasped, his eyes closing as he tried to collect himself. “It was—how Danarius controlled me.”

She glanced down and, sure enough, saw the bulge in his leggings. Her face burned hot. “I have to close the wound,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “Do you think you can handle a few minutes more?”

He let out a shuddering breath. She could see indecision warring with the desire for the pain to be gone, and finally he nodded. 

“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” she said with a smile. He looked at her intently for a moment, then looked away.

“Do what you must.”

She lifted her hands over his abdomen again. “Here goes.” Again her hands glowed blue, and again his markings lit uncontrollably, and he was moaning and groaning in what she couldn’t tell was pleasure or pain. The flesh knit itself together until all that was left was an angry looking, puckered scar, and she let the magic in her hands die. “All done.”

He was considerably less ashen, and he didn’t seem to be in much pain. However, he looked desperately embarrassed, and turned away from her on his side, curling in on himself. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she assured him, patting him twice on the arm. Like a friend, she reminded herself. “You can stay here tonight. You really shouldn’t move around much for at least the next 12 hours.”

He jerked upright and she frowned at him, pushing him back down with a hand to the center of his chest. “I couldn’t—I—your _bed_—“

He was struggling against her, trying to get out of bed, and she sighed. “I’m sorry to do this, Fenris. I really am.” Then she cast a sleep spell on him, and he slumped back against the pillows. She pulled the sheets and comforter over him, leaving him in just his leggings, and if her hand lingered on his for a moment longer than strictly necessary, well, that couldn’t be helped. 

She dressed quickly in one of her robes, walked downstairs, and gave Bodahn instructions to watch Fenris carefully and come get her the second he seemed like he was going to leave. “I’ll be at the Hanged Man,” she said, opening the door.

“So early, messere?” Bodahn asked in surprise.

“You know me,” she grinned, and left.

—

“_Varric_,” Hawke said desperately as she stormed his room.

“Morning, Hawke,” he said pleasantly, putting down his quill. “Bit early for house calls, isn’t it?”

She slumped into a chair. “I think I’m a character in one of your novels,” she moaned.

“Of course you are. I’ve got it half written. Want to see?”

“Not funny.” She folded her arms on the table and rested her forehead on them. “He’s here,” she said, voice muffled against her sleeves.

“Who’s where?”

“Fenris.”

Varric blinked twice. “The Tevinter elf? That Fenris?”

Varric had been the only one she had ever told about him. She spared some of the more… intimate details, but he knew the story of their star-crossed romance start to finish. “Yes. That Fenris,” she said.

“Isn’t that good?” Varric cocked his head to one side, confused by her despondence.

“He doesn’t remember me. Danarius must have done something to him. He remembers bits and pieces, but his feelings for me… they’re gone.”

_If they existed in the first place_, her mind unhelpfully supplied. She had spent too much of the past two years wondering if she had read too much into the situation, if he felt beholden to her or swayed by her kindness. And now, she supposed, she would never know.

“Well shit.”

She laughed without humor. “Yeah. That about sums it up.” She lifted her head and scrubbed a palm against her forehead. “He’s at my house.”

“_What?_”

“He was injured last night. I don’t know how he ended up at the estate, but… I healed him. He’s sleeping there now.” She looked at Varric imploringly. “Come with me, Varric. I don’t know if I can stand being alone with him when he’s so… empty.”

“You know I’m here for you, Hawke. This is going to make a great story.” He winked in an exaggerated fashion, forcing a laugh out of her.

—

Danarius was gone, if he had ever even been there, and the mansion was empty.

Hawke had accompanied Fenris - with the guardswoman and the dwarf - without question when he had awoken suddenly in her bed and insisted that he had to find Danarius before he fled. She hadn’t mothered him or asked about his wound, which admittedly didn’t hurt anyway; she had done a good job healing it. He didn’t even feel a twinge as he swung his sword over and over, dispelling shades and demons and even an arcane horror before finding no one else in residence.

He felt so damn disappointed. This had been his chance to crush Danarius’ heart in his fist, claim his freedom, and now it was gone.

Hawke had a smear of something black across her nose, and he had an inexplicable desire to wipe it off.

“Well, balls,” she said as she surveyed the great hall. “What now?” She looked at Fenris like he had answers, and he had none.

He looked at the ground and frowned deeply.

“Well,” she continued. “You better come back to the estate. I’ll have Bodahn fix up a room for you.”

“No,” he said quickly. She looked at him, surprised at his vehemence. “I will… remain here.”

“Fenris, this place is falling down around our ears. It’s full of corpses and shades and Maker knows what else. You can’t possibly want to stay here.”

“I will stay,” he insisted. “If Danarius wants his mansion back, he is free to come and claim it.”


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Florence + The Machine - Heavy in Your Arms](https://youtu.be/V_eOmvM-4zc)

Hawke came to visit Fenris often.

At first this discomfited him; he couldn’t discern her motivations. It couldn’t be for his sparkling conversation. Too often, after a bottle and a half of wine and the fist in his chest loosening, he would enumerate on the many wrongs done to him. Her patience seemed everlasting. He would realize after a 15-minute rant about the evils of magic that she was a _mage_, and he would suddenly see the flashes of hurt in her eyes but the resignation on her face. And then he would feel guilty, but not too guilty because magic _had_ ruined everything and magisters _were_ evil and, and and.

Yet she was a mage unlike any he had ever known in the Imperium. She despised blood magic as much as he did, and they had killed a number of blood mages together. She fought well, and wielded her magic well, but she never abused her power. 

As time went on, he found that he respected her without fearing her, and that scared him.

Often, she would talk. She would tell him stories of growing up in Lothering. Sometimes she would talk of her father (rare), how she lost Bethany to the darkspawn (rarer still), and, sometimes, about Carver (the rarest of all). He listened to her intently, paying close attention, interested even though he didn’t know why. Occasionally she would interrupt herself in the middle of a story, laughing, and say, “Maker, you’ve heard this already. Sorry I’m repeating myself.” 

“Tell me again,” he would say, frustrated with the fickle way his memories seemed so amorphous when it came to her. He knew, _knew_ that something had happened between them in Minrathous. He wasn’t ignorant of the way her eyes sometimes lingered on him a little too long, or the poignant glances she sometimes gave him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. But he remembered nothing but her kindness, and, very rarely in the middle of the night, a brush of her hand across his cheek or the play of soft hair between his fingers. 

He cursed Danarius, though it took little prompting for him to do that.

One night, after they had shared two bottles of wine and she was leaning back in her chair with her head resting on the back of it, her eyes closed and a sleepy smile on her face, he asked her. “Tell me of our time in Minrathous.”

Her eyes flew open and a flush spread across her cheeks, to her ears. He was confused by her reaction and hungry for the knowledge that had been haunting him from the moment he woke up healed in her bed. 

“Oh, Fenris,” she said, averting her gaze. “I don’t think I should.”

“Why not?” His voice was gruff, on edge.

“It’s not a happy story,” she said simply. But how was that possible? How could it not have been happy when she was still so attached to him? “I don’t want you to feel beholden to me,” she added after a moment, and this confused him even more. “We’re friends now, anyway. Can’t we be content with that?”

“I will… endeavor to be,” he said haltingly, wishing it was true. 

She smiled, and soon she left, and he sat up long into the night wondering what exactly it was that she wasn’t telling him.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [An Horse - Company](https://youtu.be/eIGMcdoLjT4)

“It’s a real nice night for an evening,” Hawke said, stretching her arms above her head and grinning.

Aveline gave her a dirty look. “Hawke,” she warned. 

“Oh, Aveline. You are most definitely one of my favorite people, but you are hopeless at romance.” Hawke laughed and, inexplicably, looked over at Fenris. He was laughing into a hand, and she felt her chest warm. He laughed so rarely, and she loved it every time it happened.

“Anyway, we should set camp. As much as I love tramping along the Coast in the middle of the night, it’s getting cold and I want a blanket and a fire.”

Camp was set, she was sitting close to the crackling fire _finally_ starting to get warm - the wind had been whipping cold sea air and salt spray in their faces all day - and, in a move that quietly delighted her, Fenris had set up his bedroll directly next to hers. The four of them sat up long into the night, exchanging stories and planning their next move, but finally everyone started to make for their bedrolls.

“I will take watch,” Fenris said to her.

“You know, you need to sleep too,” she scolded. “Even your stout Seheron blood won’t keep you from falling asleep forever.” She settled down on her bedroll, lying on her side to face him. “Do you miss Seheron?”

“I don’t know,” he said gruffly. 

“Were you young when you left?”

“I don’t remember, Hawke,” he snapped. 

She looked chastised. “Right. Sorry.”

She went silent then, and he felt unexplainably guilty. “I… did go there once. With Danarius.”

“Oh?”

He draped his arms over his knees and stared into the fire. “It smelled like spices. It was wild and beautiful in a way the Imperium is not. I… felt a kinship there.”

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “For now, Kirkwall is as good a place as any.”

“Well I’m glad you’re here, anyway,” she smiled. “It’s nice to have another sword between the bad guys and my poor, sweet, mage flesh.”

He startled a laugh that he hid in a cough. “Trouble does seem to find you,” he acknowledged with a wry smile.

“Must be something in the water,” she said flippantly, turning over onto her back. “Good night, Fenris.”

“Hawke.”

—

She moved in her sleep. It was subtle at first, her hand groping around as if she was searching for something. At last it landed on his ankle, and she wrapped her fingers around it and sighed. He stared at her hand, wondering at the soft touch of her fingers. Not rough and calloused like his own. But soon she was scooting forward, until she was pressed against his side, her face buried against his hip.

He swallowed hard.

Much as he wished to, he could not deny that he felt an attraction for Hawke. And much as he even more wished to, he had to acknowledge that it was more than physical. Oh, it was physical, certainly, but he found he admired her. Her wit, her intelligence, even her bouts of temper. She spoke of Danarius with a vitriol that he wholeheartedly shared, hated Minrathous as much as he did, and had offered her protection and her friendship and herself with never any conditions. He had never met anyone who wasn’t out for personal gain, but Hawke was different. She was a woman unlike any other.

She whimpered, shuddering in her sleep, and he looked down at her with concern. “Carver,” she said in a strangled voice. “Carver, no.” The dream seemed to be getting worse, and he wondered if he should wake her. “Why didn’t I bring Anders,” she moaned. “Someone, please help him.” 

“Hawke,” he murmured, taking her by the shoulders and rearranging her so that her head was in his lap. He rested a hand on her shoulder and petted her bound hair in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “It is only a dream.” A memory, more accurately, from the bits of pieces he had picked up from the unwilling snippets she had told him. 

She turned over, pressing her face against his stomach, and wrapped her arms tightly around Fenris. He startled, so unused to touch that he felt on fire with it. He smoothed a hand down her back, reminding himself to be gentle when he was not a gentle man, and at length she relaxed and settled against him. He looked at their companions, still asleep. If Aveline saw this, she would roast him alive. Her fierce protection of Hawke was almost motherly. Yet, he couldn’t push her away. He didn’t want to. 

Even after it was clear that she was sleeping peacefully again, he continued to run his fingers over her back and shoulder. A memory was stirring: curled around her, his cheek on her shoulder, her hand against the back of his neck. But as soon as it made itself known it was gone, and he let out an irritated hiss. 

“Fenris?” Her voice was thick with sleep, and he wasn’t even sure she was truly awake. 

“Go to sleep, Hawke. I am here.”

She sighed. “Thanks.”

—

“You have to admit, breakfast is amazing.” Hawke leaned back on one hand, rubbing her full belly with the other.

Fenris had only picked at his food, his mind still whirling with the tender moments he had shared with her last night. She didn’t even notice, had said nothing but a bright good morning when she woke up in his lap. Whether she remembered anything was a mystery, but he could still feel her warm skin under his hand. 

“But good things never last,” she added, standing up and picking up her mage staff. “I guess we better get going. Those raiders aren’t going to—“

A crossbow bolt whistled through the camp and sunk itself into a tree, having passed inches next to Hawke’s head. She raised her staff in front of her face, eyes wide, momentarily scared out of her wits. Fenris jumped to his feet and shoved her roughly down behind him. His greatsword was in his hand in an instant, and in his periphery he saw Aveline adjust her sword and shield. 

The raiders poured into the camp. Fenris let the battle lust take him over, and he moved with fluid grace as he slid from one raider to the other, slicing and chopping along the way. Spells were being unleashed behind him; Hawke had evidently regained her senses. Varric’s crossbow was singing and Aveline was bashing skulls in with her shield, snarling, “You face me! I stand for everyone!”

The last raider fell, his heart crushed in his chest, and Fenris swiped a bloody hand through his hair as he turned to look at the carnage. Hawke was leaning on her staff, her mana no doubt drained dry, her normally tidy hair falling in wisps around her face. 

He started to say something when another three bolts whistled into the clearing. Hawke gasped as two of them punctured her squarely in the shoulder, and he heard her weakly say, “Oh _balls_,” before she slumped to the ground, her staff clattering on the sand beside her.

Fenris was at her side in an instant, his eyes wide and panicked. He distantly heard Varric and Aveline dealing with the bowman. “Hawke,” he said urgently, jostling her uninjured shoulder. “Hawke.”

She opened her eyes. “I guess we missed one,” she said blithely. 

“Don’t speak, fool woman,” he said angrily. He couldn’t figure out why he was angry at her. It wasn’t her fault she had been shot. But panic had turned to anger, and anger was what he was good at. “Can you heal yourself?” 

“No mana. I’ve always been a shit healer anyway. Should’ve brought Anders with us, I guess.” 

He growled in his throat at the mention of the _abomination_. “Stay still,” he commanded, and ignoring her grunts of pain he broke off the bolts at her skin. She was clenching her fists so hard that the knuckles were turning white. 

“It’s going to be a bitch to get back to Kirkwall,” she said as Aveline and Varric rushed over. 

“I’ll say,” Varric agreed. “I’ll swing by Anders’ clinic when we get there. You’ll be right as rain in no time, Hawke.”

Fenris swept her up into his arms bridal style, careful not to jostle her too much. “My hero,” she cooed. “Look how big and strong he is, Varric. I want you to make sure you mention that in the book.”

“I said don’t speak,” Fenris snapped. She obediently was quiet as they made their winding way back to Kirkwall. But Hawke was Hawke, and she never could stay quiet too long.

“You know what I want?”

Fenris looked at her, his eyes hard. 

“Chocolate,” she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder, careful of the spikes of his armor. “Dark chocolate, specifically.”

“And I suppose you have none,” he said flatly, unable to ignore her. 

“I’m going to have to start carrying it with me,” she said in a thoughtful tone. “Unless you have any.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why would I—“

“I know, I know,” she interrupted with a smile. “It would ruin your image. Forget I said anything.”

“I don’t have an _image_.”

“Are you kidding? Varric’s written stories about your image. The dark, broody elf with a heart of gold. Look at his spikes and despair!”

He felt himself bristle, but deep down he knew this was just Hawke being Hawke, teasing him without malice. 

“You are ridiculous.”

“You love me anyway.”

He almost dropped her. _Love_? What did an escaped slave know about love? His life had been all about his master, what the next hour would bring, how he could best serve. There was no place for love in his world. 

_Or maybe there is_, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Hawke whispered in the back of his mind. 

“Just be quiet,” he said in exasperation, and this time she obeyed, all the way to the estate.


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song - [Peter Murphy - Strange Kind of Love](https://youtu.be/y3Cy7B9x0qk)

Hawke was _fine_. Hawke was fine, and they had gone out on three expeditions since the crossbolt incident, and yet he found himself hovering around her like an overprotective parent. He was twitchy, paranoid, always looking around them for some unknown threat. He went nowhere without his sword, determined to never let it happen again.

“We’re playing Wicked Grace tonight,” Isabela said around a bottle. “At the Hanged Man. You should come!”

He furrowed his brow. “I don’t play cards.”

“But you could,” she laughed. “I know you don’t do _fun_, but it might be a nice change. Hawke will be there.” She waggled her eyebrows.

“Why would I care if Hawke is going to be there?”

Isabela tilted her head back, her jewelry gleaming at her throat, and let out a full-bellied laugh. “Oh _please_,” she said, still laughing. “You two aren’t nearly as subtle as you think you are. Even _Merrill_ is suspecting something’s going on at this point.”

“There is nothing going on between Hawke and me,” he said firmly. An image rose unbidden to his mind: her face pressed to his stomach, his fingers dancing along her back. He willed himself not to blush.

“Sure, sweet thing,” Isabela winked. “Anyway, you should come. We’re meeting at nine.”

—

He stood outside the Hanged Man at nine and looked up at the, well, hanging man above the door. He wondered, vaguely, when this group of ragtag people had become such good friends to him. He wondered why they bothered. He wondered why _he_ bothered.

Hawke’s influence, no doubt, he thought darkly. 

“You’re here!” Speak of the devil. Hawke threaded her arm through his and tugged him close to her side. “We weren’t sure you would come. Isabela bet a whole sovereign, and now I’m going to be rich.” She grinned up at him, and without meaning to, he smiled back at her. “Well come on, then. What are you waiting out here for?”

She led him inside, never letting go of his arm, and practically dragged him to the long table where their companions were already gathered. 

“Oh, knickerweasles,” Isabela said as she drew a coin from between her breasts and flicked it over to Hawke. 

He found he was actually pretty good at Wicked Grace, but Isabela cheated, and Hawke sitting next to him was so damn _distracting_, getting more so with every piss-poor ale he swallowed, and after three hours he had lost five sovereigns and a good portion of his sanity. She _never sat still_. Hawke had always been full of frenetic energy, still only when she was really engrossed in something, but as the ale kept flowing and she kept drinking it, she moved around in her seat more and more. Her thigh kept brushing his, warm and inviting, and he was finding it hard to concentrate.

“Will you sit still, fool woman,” he growled after the hundredth time of her leaning against him, rubbing her thigh against his, brushing their arms together.

She looked over at him with wide, surprised eyes. “Am I bothering you? I can move if you want.”

Suddenly the thought of her not being next to him was more painful than the thought of her being there. “No.” 

“Good,” she grinned. She swung her legs over the bench, infuriatingly resting her back against his arm to steady herself, and got up. “I’m going to get us another round.”

If he watched her ass as she walked away, well, it was the ale’s fault. He suddenly had a strong urge to bend her over the table and see how much she moved _then_. 

She brought the drinks back on a tray, delivering them to each person with an efficiency that belied how damn drunk she was, and walked back over to her place at the table. She set a mug in front of Fenris and bowed low. “Your swill, messere,” she said in her best Bodahn voice.

He laughed despite himself. 

One leg and then the other went over the bench, but as she swung her second leg over, she lost her balance and toppled backwards. Right into Fenris’ lap. Fenris’ lap, where he was trying desperately not to embarrass himself with the turn his thoughts had taken. His arm had flown out to wrap around her back, to catch her, and his other hand was at her waist. She stared up at him, a flush on her cheeks, as he ran his hand over the swell of her hip and up her side. Then Merrill laughed at something Isabela said, and he came back to himself. He snatched his hand away like he’d been burned and shoved her out of his lap. 

“Oh. Sorry,” she said in a dazed voice. 

When the game was over and he was completely broke, he walked Hawke back to Hightown, because of course he did. She didn’t even have her staff with her, fool woman. The walk was silent, and he was being vigilant, when suddenly a loud moan echoed from the alley next to them.

He whipped his head to the side and there was a man pressing a woman against the wall of the alley, his hands on her ass and her legs around his waist. He was nipping along her throat as she giggled. All at once Fenris felt very embarrassed and very aroused, imagining that he had Hawke pinned to the wall, grinding his cock against her wet folds as she gasped under his tongue and teeth.

“Well they’re enjoying themselves,” Hawke said.

Startled from his thoughts, humiliated beyond measure at them, he turned his head and coughed. 

And then her face was in his vision, leaning too close. “Maker’s breath, Fenris, are you _blushing_?” she asked incredulously. She started to laugh. “You _are_ blushing. That is so adorable.”

“It is not,” he insisted, embarrassed. 

“It absolutely is. Look, it goes all the way up to your ears!” 

“_Venhedis_.”

She sidled up to his side and nuzzled his collarbone. “Do you wish that was us?”

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

“No,” he said in a strangled voice. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Ugh.” She stepped away from him and rolled her eyes. “You really know how to kill a mood.”

“There was no _mood_,” he insisted.

“Oh, sure,” she said flippantly. “None at all. Good night, Fenris.”

—

He was being haunted by thoughts of her.

His mind was swimming from too much ale and too much want and he kept imagining her pressing against him, falling in his lap, laughing. She had seemed so earnest when she asked if he wished it were them. Earnest and coy and a little needy. It was easy to pretend that she wished it, wanted it, was seconds away from claiming it herself. 

_Venhedis_.

They hadn’t even kissed once. _Or maybe we did, back in Minrathous_, he thought distantly. But with no memories to guide him and nothing but her own actions to keep him guessing, he could focus only on the present, where she seemed determined to pull his self control apart at the seams. He ached for her. Not just her body - though he most definitely ached for that - but her smile, her kindness, her wit. He wanted to control her, to keep her, to make her his. He was startled that he had allowed her so close, but they had been dancing around each other for almost a year and somehow, she had wormed her way into his life and his heart.

_Fasta vass_. 

He stripped himself of his armor quickly and settled in his blanket nest before the fire, determined to put Hawke out of his thoughts. 

But she would not stay there.

Once, months ago, he had surprised her at her estate. Bodahn had been absent and he had let himself upstairs, knowing he would always be welcome, and he hadn’t hesitated after his quick knock to enter the room. She had her back to him but was clad only in loose-fitting trousers. His mouth went dry at the vision of _so much skin_ and he had been overcome with the desire to touch, taste. But the moment was over too quickly as she pulled her robe up over her shoulders and spun around.

“Fenris!” She clutched the robe closed over her breasts, but a tantalizing strip of her stomach was still visible. 

“I… did not mean to intrude,” he forced himself to say, unable to tear his eyes from her stomach. He had forgotten why he had even come. 

Why that moment played over in his mind now of all times was a mystery to him. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for sleep, but sleep would not come. Instead the vision of her smooth back rose in his mind. Suddenly he was stepping forward, wrapping his arms around her from behind. He would palm her breasts, heavy and full, as he pushed against her ass. In his mind he was naked, only her trousers between them, but he would hastily divest her of those. 

He groaned and unlaced his trousers, pushing them down his thighs and taking himself in hand. Usually he was quick and clinical, but this time he savored it as he let the scenes play out in his mind: Hawke on her knees before him, his cock deep in her throat. Hawke under him, his cock jerking between her breasts as she pressed them together. Hawke tied to the bed by wrists and ankles while he devoted himself to her pleasure over and over. And best of all, Hawke above him, riding him like she was desperate for it, her hair brushing over his chest. 

He came with a wordless shout and immediately felt guilty for using her like this. They were friends, and friends didn’t think of friends while they gracelessly jerked off on the floor. 

_“Do you wish that was us?” _

_Venhedis_, yes. He wished for it with all his being, and hated himself for it.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Tom Waits - Alice](https://youtu.be/aEj-mrwwaxo) (It's entirely possible I named Hawke Alice for this song in particular.)
> 
> The song they dance to: [Aram Khachaturian - Masquerade: Waltz](https://youtu.be/YCoLUMURunQ)

“I’m giving a party on Saturday,” Hawke said. “It’s going to be a horrible affair. Lots of nobles and no doubt eligible bachelors my mother would love to set me up with.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow at her, not sure how this information affected him. He waited for her to continue.

She coughed into a fist, not quite able to meet his eyes. “I’d like you to come.”

“You want an escaped slave at your party of nobles?” he asked, unable to keep the vitriol from his voice. “Am I to serve drinks?”

“Fenris!” She looked horrified and—hurt. He felt a stab of remorse, but tamped it down. “I just… I thought it might be nice to have a friendly face there. It was a stupid thought. I’m sorry.” She stood, smoothing down her robe. “Well, I better get back. Good night.” She wasn’t looking at him, and he wanted her to. He wanted to stop her, but he remained sitting, stony and silent, as she swept out of the room. He listened to her descending the steps and when the door to his mansion opened and closed, he allowed himself to release the breath he had been holding.

—

“I… need a favor.”

Varric cocked his head with a grin. “Well this is a change. What can I do for you, elf?”

“I need to procure… clothes. Nice ones.”

“Nice—wait, are you coming to Hawke’s party? I’d love to have someone there to gossip with. Aveline just isn’t good at it.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Fenris suddenly felt like this was a bad idea.

“I do not wish Hawke to know.”

This caught Varric’s attention, and his grin faded into a small, knowing smile. “Don’t you worry, Broody. I’ll get you fixed up, and you’ll be the belle of the ball.”

—

Fenris felt ridiculous. He desperately longed for his armor, feeling horribly underdressed despite the fact that his collar went up to his neck and the fine black coat buttoned at the wrist. Varric had indeed done a good job, and he looked positively buoyant when he walked in and saw Fenris skulking in the corner.

He had not even seen Hawke yet. The estate was slowly filling up, nobles cramming into the space dressed in all their finery, and Fenris felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb. He forced himself to relax. He had gotten a few looks, but most seemed to think him not worth their notice. This was a terrible idea. 

“Isabela owes me two sovereigns,” Varric said conversationally as he approached Fenris with two glasses of wine. “If she could see you here, she would shit herself.”

Fenris took one of the glasses of wine and in a monumental wave of self control did not down it in two gulps. “Hawke isn’t even here,” he muttered into his glass.

Varric shrugged. “You know Hawke. She’s probably waiting until the last possible minute to come down so she doesn’t have to interact with these people more than she has to. She’ll show up, don’t worry.”

They chatted a bit longer, and Fenris slowly felt himself unwind in Varric’s comforting presence. 

“Champion!” someone cooed from across the room, and Fenris immediately looked to the stairs. His heart stuttered in his chest and despite the wine, his mouth went dry. 

She was a vision. Fenris had always thought Hawke an extraordinarily beautiful woman, but like this, she was exquisite. Gone were the shapeless robes, replaced by a red satin gown that tapered then flared at the waist. It was low cut, offering a tantalizing view of her cleavage. But perhaps more than all of this, her ordinary severe bun was gone this evening, and her auburn hair was curled and pinned, spilling down her back. She smiled at whomever had hailed her and finished walking down the steps. 

“You might want to close your mouth, Broody. Something might fly into it.”

Fenris slammed his mouth shut, his teeth clacking together, and shot a glare at Varric. From the amused smile on Varric’s face, it was clear that he knew… too much. Again, Fenris was overwhelmed by the desire to leave, particularly before Hawke saw him.

He did not leave. Instead he watched as she moved from guest to guest, a goblet of wine in her gloved hand. Her smile was easy and she looked like she belonged here. He could hear her laughter, musical, from across the room, and he scowled, unaccountably jealous, as he watched her chat with a handsome young man. This was her world. He didn’t belong here, and he was a fool for coming. He started to turn to Varric, but before he could, Hawke looked over and their eyes met.

He could see her eyes widen in surprise. Then she smiled, a genuine, overjoyed smile that was watts higher than the polite smiles she had given the other guests. His heart was beating triple time, and he could not look away. She glanced at the man she was speaking with, said something quietly, and moved away, towards Fenris. 

He could not move, was completely ignorant of the fact that Varric had discreetly stepped away, could not even blink as he watched her approach. It felt like the room was a mile long, but then she was there, laughing breathlessly, her eyes dancing. “You came,” she said, her voice warm.

Words stuck in his throat. “You invited me,” he said finally, gruff despite himself.

“So I did.” 

He coughed into his right hand and forced himself to speak. “That dress is—you look—“ He paused, gathered his courage. “You look very nice.”

She tilted her head, and her smile turned a little teasing. “Oooh, Fenris, master of compliments,” she laughed. 

Near the stairway, a small group of musicians began to play a waltz he recognized from the many parties he had attended as a slave in Tevinter. A thrill of fear went through him, and Hawke must have seen it, because she placed a gloved hand on his arm. “This isn’t like that,” she said quietly. “You’re safe here.”

He looked at her intently. How did she always know what he was thinking, what to say? “Hawke,” he began, but she interrupted him with a smile. 

“Dance with me?”

His eyes widened. “You would dance with an elf, an escaped slave, at your party, where every noble tongue will wag for weeks?”

“What’s the point of being Champion of Kirkwall if I can’t set a few tongues wagging?” she laughed. “Besides, you’re not just an elf and an escaped slave. You’re Fenris, a man I—“ She cut herself off, her cheeks darkening. “A man I have come to consider a dear friend,” she amended. “So if you don’t mind…” She held her hand out to him. 

It was madness, absolute madness. She would ruin her reputation, but the warm look in her eyes—he couldn’t resist. He placed his hand in hers and let her lead him out into the middle of the room where other couples were already dancing. He adjusted his grip on her hand and moved his other hand to her waist. Unable to stop himself, he let his hand drift down the side of the corset before it came to rest on the jut of her hip. She stepped closer, too close, close enough that he could feel the heat of her, and he felt like a drowning man. 

She started them off, leading until he could get himself under control. This was not Tevinter, he kept reminding himself. He was no longer a slave. He was a man with a beautiful woman in his arms. They moved together seamlessly, as if they had been made to compliment each other, and the look in her eyes as she gazed at him was so warm, so _loving_, that he wanted nothing more than to lean down and capture her lips. 

“This is my favorite song,” she said softly, never looking away from him. “But I especially love it now.”

He was drawn to her. She was irresistible. “Hawke,” he murmured, leaning closer. She turned her face up to him, expecting, _wanting_, and he was so close, so close—

“Champion, may I interrupt?” It was the handsome man she had been laughing with earlier, and she looked startled out of the spell. 

“I must go,” Fenris said quickly, releasing her and stepping a safe distance away.

“Wait, Fenris—“

“I must go. Forgive me, Hawke.” He nearly ran for the exit, leaving her staring after him in confusion and hurt, and he did not stop running until he reached his mansion and was safely inside. 

This was madness. He could not control himself around her. Briefly he wondered if this… compulsion… was blood magic, but he knew better. He paced back and forth in front of his fireplace, cursing softly in Arcanum, visions of her face dancing behind his eyes. 

Closing his eyes, he rested his closed fist on the mantel and let his thoughts drift to a year ago when he had showed up at the Amell estate with nothing but the echo of fond memories and desperation. She had never flinched from him, never denied him her help. She had welcomed him with open arms and a warm heart, and the spark of admiration he had never allowed to grow when he arrived had blossomed into a bright flame the longer he was in her company. 

He felt unworthy of her, and yet she came to him willingly over and over again. 

He didn’t know what to do.


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Illenium - Take You Down](https://youtu.be/SL_-RqReveA) (I really feel like this is Fenris' theme song.)

Hawke was sitting in the study, a book unheeded on her lap, a glass of brandy in her hand.

Fenris had been about to kiss her. She _knew_ it. If Count whatever-his-name was hadn’t come and bloody interrupted, she would have had what she had wanted for years now. Now Fenris was avoiding her - again - as if he had done something wrong and she wasn’t sure how to ease his mind and, more importantly, lure him back to her. 

Damn and blast.

Her mother walked into the room. “Good evening, sweetheart. Count DuLauncet was asking about you last night.”

“That’s nice.” She was only half listening.

“He’s such a nice young man, don’t you think?”

“Mm.”

“Perhaps I should invite him over to dinner so you two can get to know each other better.”

That got her attention. “Mother, I have less than no interest in Count Fancypants. Don’t invite him to dinner.”

Leandra sighed and fiddled with some papers on the desk. “Is this about that elf?”

Hawke felt her hackles raise. _That elf_ indeed, like that’s all he was. At least she hadn’t said “that slave.”

“Which one? City’s crawling with them.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Alice,” her mother scolded. 

Hawke looked away petulantly. “What about him?”

“I can’t help but notice how… close you two have become.”

“Yeah, well.” _Not close enough_, her mind traitorously whispered.

“Alice.” Leandra walked over to her chair. “Are you sure this is wise?”

“Since when have I ever been wise?” Hawke said with a thin smile. 

“I just hope you know what you’re doing. That’s all.” Leandra patted her on the shoulder, then left the room. 

“_Venhedis_,” Hawke said in her best Fenris voice.

—

Fenris was half asleep, lazing by the fire. He was most certainly not pining for Hawke or replaying in his mind how lush her lips were or how close he had come to kissing her surrounded by every noble in the city and with her _mother_ in the room.

It had been a week since the party and he had been deliberately staying out of Hawke’s way. She had come to see him once, but for once the door had been locked and he had scurried into a room he never used and stayed there for at least half an hour, just in case. He didn’t know what to say to her, how to explain himself, and so it was safer to just be out of her presence.

There was a knock at the door, but it was not Hawke’s customary knock. Warily he trudged downstairs, his greatsword in one hand, and unlocked and opened the door.

“Leandra?” he said, confused.

“Hello, Fenris,” Leandra said with a polite smile. “I’ve come to ask you to dinner.”

His confusion turned into terror at the prospect of seeing Hawke again. “I.. couldn’t.”

“Nonsense,” Leandra insisted, her hand on his arm. He forced himself not to bristle at the touch and shrug her off. “I’m only ashamed I haven’t invited you sooner.”

His conscience was at war with itself, but he _missed_ Hawke, and this was her _mother_, and he couldn’t say no. “I… yes. Thank you.”

“Wonderful! We’ll see you at six.”

—

He dressed with care, feeling ridiculous. Opting out of his customary armor, he wore only his leggings and a loose-fitting black linen shirt. He stared into a dusty mirror and fiddled with his hair, feeling even _more_ ridiculous. It was nearly six, and he was going to be late if he didn’t leave now. He grabbed the bottle of wine from the table, looked longingly at his greatsword, and left the manor.

Bodahn answered the door with a bright smile. “Good evening, messere! I’ll just go tell Madam Leandra you’ve arrived. If you don’t mind waiting just a moment.” He left Fenris standing in the vestibule, fiddling with the bottle of wine and looking at the wall. He felt every bit as awkward as he looked. How would Hawke receive him? Would she be glad to see him, or annoyed that he had accepted her mother’s offer? 

Leandra breezed into the vestibule and looked at him warmly. “I’m so glad you came,” she said, taking the bottle of wine from him. “Please come in, dear. I’ll just go get Alice.”

_Alice_. He had never once said her given name aloud - she hated it, and preferred Hawke - but he loved it all the same.

He stood in front of the fire, wishing he had something to do with his hands, as Leandra disappeared into the study. 

“Come to dinner, dear.”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Hawke’s voice sent tremors along his skin, even as annoyed as she sounded.

“We have an important guest this evening.”

“Mother.” Hawke’s voice was flat. “I swear on Andraste herself that if you invited Count what’s-his-name to dinner I will—“ She stepped into the living room, saw Fenris, and stopped. “Flay you alive,” she finished weakly. “Well. Uh. Hello.”

Awkward. _So awkward_. He had no idea what to say to her, and she clearly wasn’t faring much better. 

Leandra glanced between them with a confused look. “I hope you don’t mind, sweetheart. I thought it would be nice if I got to know your friend better.”

It sounded like a peace offering, and he wondered just what, exactly, they had said about him before.

“Hawke,” he said, sounding _so bloody insecure_. This was insane. He should never have come.

But then she broke into a sunny, relieved smile, and he distantly wondered if maybe it was a good idea after all.

They sat down to dinner, and it was only through Leandra’s good upbringing that any semblance of conversation kept flowing at the table. She asked Fenris all sorts of questions, seemed genuinely interested in his stilted answers, and didn’t seem to notice Hawke watching with a flabbergasted look. It was only when Leandra left the table to get dessert and Fenris and Hawke were alone together that things got awkward again.

“So,” Hawke said, fiddling with her wine glass. “How have you been?”

“Fine.”

“…Right. Uh. Read any good books lately?”

“You know I can’t read,” he sniped. Their lessons had halted weeks ago, when things had gotten more… intense between them. The intimate time had seemed, well, too intimate.

“Ha ha,” she said. “Of course.”

They sat in silence. Fenris finally made himself say something. “You… have been well?”

“Oh sure. Right as rain.” 

Silence again.

“Look, Fenris,” she started, finally looking at him. “I don’t know why you’ve been avoiding me, like you’ve done something wrong. I mean, I know we almost kissed, but I _want_ to kiss you, don’t you understand?”

And he wanted that, more than he could say. He would throw her down on the dining room table and kiss her senseless now if he could work up the courage. But a vision of her mingling with the nobles, looking like she belonged there, rose to his mind, and he felt like he just couldn’t compete.

He stood suddenly, sending the chair skittering backwards. “I must go. Please thank your mother for the lovely meal.” 

“Don’t run away from me!”

But he did. He ran, and he hated himself, and he heard her voice on repeat in his head. “_I want to kiss you, don’t you understand?_”


	14. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [XUK - Petrified](https://youtu.be/JfHi6t5AHQ0)

“You know, elf, tomorrow is Hawke’s name day,” Varric said without preamble as he walked into Fenris’ room. He and Isabela were the only two who never knocked, clever fingers always able to pick the lock without difficulty. Fenris had insisted, once, that they might walk in on something inappropriate sometime - what if he was in the bath? Changing clothes? Isabela had said with delight that she very much hoped to be so lucky.

Fenris looked up from where he was polishing his sword. “Oh?”

“She asked me to invite you to the little get-together she’s having.”

“Not another party,” Fenris groaned, swiping a hand across his face. Because the last one had gone _so_ well.

Varric laughed. “No nobles this time. Just us degenerates, and, you know, Hawke’s mother. It should be fun, Broody. I think she really wants you to come.”

He thought about it. They had, in the past couple of weeks, approached something more like their old friendship. Distance from the almost-kiss was helping him think clearly again, and after dinner with her mother, Hawke seemed to realize there was no point talking about it further. “Hmm. Yes. I will be there.”

Varric clapped his hands together and stood. “Excellent! She said to be there around noon.”

—

He deliberately arrived well before noon, a small box clutched between his hands. Aveline was always early, and for this, he wanted it to be just Hawke and him. He didn’t want anyone else to witness this foolish bit of sentimentality.

He was waiting in the living room when Hawke flounced down the stairs. He froze, looking at her. She was in a simple green sundress, sleeveless, that went down to her ankles. He was so used to seeing her in mage robes or, when they were being casual, a linen shirt and trousers that he was struck by how… feminine she looked. She was beautiful.

“So Varric convinced you to come after all,” she said delightedly. “I wasn’t sure you would after… well, I’m just glad you’re here.” She leaned in and kissed Fenris’ cheek quickly, and he fought an urge to rub his face clear of the lingering electricity there. “Good morning.”

“Hawke,” he said gruffly. “Happy Name Day.”

“Getting better all the time,” she winked. Turning her attention to the box in his hands, she asked, “Is that for me?”

He could feel a traitorous blush rising to his cheeks as he thrust the box out to her. She took it from him with a smile. “You didn’t have to get me anything, you know. It’s enough that you’re here.”

How was she always able to say such things that set his blood on fire as casually as if she was commenting on the weather?

“Can I open it now?” She led the way into the study and sat down in one of the chairs, motioning for him to do the same. 

“Yes. I… would prefer that you open it when no one else is present.”

A teasing grin spread across her face. “Why, is it something dirty? A sex toy shaped like a dragon? Varric’s latest romance novel?”

“Just open it, Hawke,” he snapped, ignoring the burning on his cheeks.

She laughed and turned her attention to the box. It was wrapped, which he could see surprised her, and she carefully pulled the paper off without ripping it as if she was going to keep it. The box itself was nondescript, and she pulled the top free and gazed inside.

Her eyes opened wide. “Fenris,” she breathed. “This is…”

“I know your mother makes you tea in the morning,” he said by way of explanation, embarrassed. He would never tell her that he had spent hours scouring not just the Hightown but the Lowtown markets as well, searching for the perfect gift. 

She pulled the delicate china teacup from the box and held it up to the light, turning it back and forth and running her fingertip along the row of hawks that circled the rim. “Maker, where did you even find this? It’s like it was made for me personally.” Carefully she set it down on the desk and jumped to her feet. He stiffened when she leaned down and wrapped him in a hug, but after a few moments he pat her on the back. Pat pat pat, like a stranger. 

_Idiot_.


	15. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Cake - Love You Madly](https://youtu.be/2uwjsG0cRf0)

It was late. Bodahn and Hawke’s mother had clearly gone to bed, judging by the low fire in the fireplace and the emptiness downstairs. Fenris was sitting on the bench in the vestibule, his hands on his knees, replaying every cruel thing he had said to Hawke hours before. Maker, the hurt look on her face as he had all but snarled at her, “What has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled?” It was so easy to forget Hawke was a mage herself, because she was so different than all the other mages he had known. She had tried to comfort him, and he had batted her away like her touch hurt him before disappearing into the city without another word.

Now that his temper had cooled, he felt very, very guilty.

Hawke hadn’t come back yet, but he would stay until she did. He thought, with a stone in his gut, that she was probably out looking for him. But he figured it had to be close to midnight, and surely she would give up and come home eventually.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been waiting before the door opened and Crowley bounded in, followed by his master. She had a hand pressed to her forehead, looking weary and heartbroken. He stood, getting her attention, and her eyes widened. “Fenris?”

“I have been thinking about what happened with Hadriana,” he began without preamble. “I took out my anger out on you. Undeservedly so. I was not myself. I’m sorry.”

“I was worried about you,” she said in a small voice. “I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

“I.. needed to be alone. When I was still a slave—“

“You told me. When we were in Minrathous. There was nothing I could do then, but… I am glad she got what she deserved.”

“This hate… it dogs me wherever I go. And to know that it is they who put it there…” He looked to the side, mouth drawn in a thin line. “But I did not come to burden you. I just wanted to apologize.” He turned from her, making to leave, when suddenly her hand clasped around his arm.

“You don’t need to leave, Fenris,” she said.

His lyrium markings flashed, almost like a warning, as he spun around to face her. She looked so earnest, so surprised. She abruptly let go of his arm, mouth opening as if to apologize, and he grabbed her by both arms, all but shoving her forward until her back slammed into the wall. Her eyes were wide and she gasped as his lips sealed against hers. She responded immediately, surging into the kiss, grabbing him around the waist and spinning him so that it was she who pushed him against the wall. 

The kiss was electric, a year of build-up finally exploding between them. It was lips and teeth and tongue, violent and unrestrained, all the unspoken emotion between them pouring out in this one single point of contact. His skin burned, and his markings were going haywire with the madness of his feelings, and it felt like finally, _finally_, everything was falling into place.

“Upstairs,” she gasped against his lips, but she refused to let him go. They stumbled together through the living room and up the stairs, stealing frenetic kisses along the way, and she kicked open the door to her bedroom, slammed it closed, and pushed him against it. 

Her hands were shaking on the buckles of his armor. “Off,” she commanded. “Off, off off.” 

He gave her a feral grin, wild at the thought of her so desperate for him. She was stripping her armor too, throwing it in a pile on the floor, and he followed suit quickly. Neither bothered keeping their smalls on; they would only be taking them off soon, anyway. As soon as they were naked she was all over him again, pressing her body against his from shoulders to thighs. He could feel the hard points of her nipples against his chest, and his cock pressed against her stomach as she kissed him over and over, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. He grasped her hip with one hand and ran his other over her ass, squeezing. 

He let out a grunt of surprise when she suddenly jumped up into his arms - it was only years of training that honed his reflexes enough to catch her without warning - and she hooked her legs around his hips tightly. He could feel her heat against his cock, her wetness smearing over his skin, and he was half mad for her. He sunk his teeth into her neck as he slipped inside her, so easy as if he belonged there, and she groaned loudly. 

“Your mother will hear,” he gasped against her neck. 

“I don’t care if the Maker himself hears,” was her breathless response. 

And that spurred him into action, that need in her voice that matched his own, and soon he was slamming over and over into her, his fingers digging into her ass. She had both arms around his neck and she kept kissing him, kissed him like she needed it like air, and he felt so _overwhelmed_ with desire and need and lust and - though he would never admit it, barely even recognized it - love.

It was over all too soon, both too worked up to make it last. He came first, his face buried in her neck, and she followed right after with her head pressed back against the door. He slowly pulled free and lowered her to the floor, keeping his arms tight around her waist while they both collected themselves. 

“I have waited so, _so_ long for that,” she panted against his shoulder. 

Already he felt another spark low in his belly. “I’m not done with you,” he growled, sweeping her off her feet and depositing her on the bed. “Hawke, do you trust me?”

“Implicitly,” she said without hesitation. 

He was pulling the sash from her robe, and he smoothed the satin between his fingers. Leaning forward, he grabbed both of her wrists in one hand and pulled her arms above her head. She held them there obediently as he deftly tied them together with the sash. He sat back to survey his handiwork, and his mouth went dry at the sight of her there, stretched before him, her eyes dark with lust and the slash of a grin on her face. 

“I will have you,” he rumbled, leaning down and licking a stripe across her collarbone. “In every way I know how.”

“I am yours,” she moaned, and he felt his stomach do a flip.

He vaguely thought back to all the nights he had spent alone in his mansion, dreaming of this day, this moment. Fantasies rushed through his mind, one after the other, and he barely knew where to start.

_We have time_, he thought, heady with the realization. _We have time together_.

He swung a leg over her hip and settled on her thighs, trying quite desperately to ignore the way his cock sat just above her wetness. She noticed it too, and he gave her a stern look when she started to writhe her hips to rub against him. She only grinned back at him. He pressed his hands to her waist - little bruises from their tryst against the door were already starting to form - and slowly slid his hands up her sides, over her breasts, across her stomach. They were delicate caresses; he was taking his time now that the urgency had worn off. He lifted her to a sitting position and her bound arms looped around his neck. With careful deliberation, keeping his eyes on her, he started plucking the pins from her hair, throwing them on the floor next to the bed. At last her hair fell free around her shoulders.

“You should wear your hair down more often,” he said as he lowered her back to the bed. 

“Not a chance. You would maul me every opportunity you got,” she teased.

“A tempting offer,” he agreed before he took a nipple into his mouth. She hummed in her throat, and he suddenly, very desperately, wanted his cock in her mouth. He tried to push the desire away, turning to her other breast. After a few moments of tongue and teeth, he kissed his way down her stomach. Slowly he pushed her thighs open, heady with the scent of her, and threw both of her thighs over his shoulders before burying his face in her folds. She arched up beneath him, jerking her hips forward, and he licked at her eagerly. He wasted no time shoving two fingers inside her, crooking and scissoring them, rolling her clit with his tongue. And she wasted no time falling into a chant of his name, unable to control the buck and grind of her hips against his face. He toyed with her nipples with clever fingers as he pleasured her, and after what felt like no time at all she pulled taut as a bowstring, cursed, and crested beneath him.

She slumped back against the bed bonelessly, panting for breath. She tugged at the sash binding her wrists and pouted. “I want to touch you.”

“You look too good like this,” he said darkly, leaning forward, grabbing her chin between two fingers, and kissing her roughly. “Whose are you?”

“Yours,” she whispered.

“_Mine_.”

He stood up abruptly. Maker, but he was going to enact every fantasy he had ever had of this woman tonight alone. He tugged her forward and she almost tumbled out of bed, catching herself at the last moment with her bound hands. She looked eye level as she evened herself out on her knees, and grinned saucily up at him. “I think I know what you have in mind,” she said. “Fair’s fair.” And then her mouth was on him, and he was convinced he had died and gone to the Maker’s side.

One of the things Fenris loved most about Hawke was the way she used her tongue - not _literally_, but her wit and her jokes and everything else. But _this_ way she used her tongue made him love it even more; she sucked him eagerly as she swirled her tongue around the head of his cock, dipping into the slit. She pulled her lips from him with a pop and then, with another wicked grin and her eyes on his face, she leaned down and sucked first one, then the other of his balls into her mouth. He groaned low in his throat as she licked the underside of his cock from root to tip, then pulled the head of him back between her lips. 

He looked down at her, and she looked so good like that, her cheeks flushed and her lips stretched tight around his cock. His fantasies had paled in comparison, and he was so close, so close…

“Wait,” he gasped. She pulled off him immediately, her expression turning concerned. 

He leaned down and kissed her concern away, lifting her gently back to lie on the bed. With trembling fingers he untied the knots in the sash and she rubbed her wrists gingerly. 

“I…” He drifted off, suddenly unsure of himself. It had been such a prurient fantasy, one that had gotten him off more than once, and with his fascination for her breasts it seemed only natural, but he was reticent to ask, lest he sound like a fool. A perverted fool, at that.

She sat up and ran her fingertips over his shoulder. “You can ask me anything,” she assured him. “I don’t do anything with children or animals. Otherwise, have at me.” She winked at him, and he growled and was on her again, forcing her to lie back with his body as he sealed her mouth with another kiss. They laid like that a while, kissing fervently, when she suddenly slapped his ass.

He startled, pulling back from her. “Did you just… hit me?”

“Only a little,” she grinned. “You can slap me back if you want. I might like a little pain with my pleasure.” She drew out pleasure like pleaaasaaaah, and he couldn’t help his chuckle.

“I will remember that for the future,” he promised, and a part of him thrilled. _Future_. They had a future. It seemed too much to hope for.

“Now, back to business,” she said, running her hands up his thighs. “I believe you wanted something from me, but you seemed a little nervous to say what it was. Should I close my eyes? Cover my ears? Would you like to write a note?”

“You will be the death of me, woman,” he growled.

“You said that once before,” she replied with a grin. “I haven’t yet, though.”

He ran his hands over her stomach again, then took both her breasts in hand and pushed them together. They were so lush and tantalizing and his cock ached. She looked at him, too observant by half. “Oooh. I like where this is going,” she purred. 

Hesitantly he crawled over her, settling himself on her stomach. The tip of his cock pressed against the tight gap between her breasts. He bit his bottom lip and looked away, blushing furiously.

“Fenris,” she said, reaching up and turning his face towards her. “You just fucked me senseless against a door with my mother in the next room. You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

He muttered something in Arcanum and then thrust forward. The skin of her breasts was so warm, so pliant. It was nothing like the warmth of her core, and yet just as maddening. He toyed with her nipples as he thrust forward and back again, establishing a steady rhythm against her skin. She surprised him when she craned her head forward, stuck out her tongue, and managed to lick the head of his cock every time it popped out from the top of her breasts. 

She truly would be the death of him. 

At length she put her hands over his, helping him squeeze her breasts together, and he slid his hands free so he could instead wrap them in her hair. He kept one hand on her scalp while he twisted her hair around his other fist and pulled her head further forward. Maker, he was close. She grabbed his ass and tugged him closer, wrapping her lips around the head of his cock and letting her breasts fall away. She sucked him relentlessly, working her fingers along his shaft, and he held her hair like a lifeline.

As if she could sense his imminent release, she pulled from his cock but kept working him in quick little jerks with her hand. He looked down at her, and she looked like such a vision, such a temptress, as she gazed up at him with a saucy smile on her face and her tongue just barely poking from between her lips. 

He came violently, immediately, exploding with it such that he nearly blacked out. When he came to himself he was resting his hands on either side of her head, one hand still wrapped up in her hair, his head dropped as he panted for breath. He looked down at her and his eyes went wide. “Hawke,” he said in a strangled voice, _mortified_…

But she looked delighted as she swiped a finger through the streaks of cum on her face and licked it clean. It was every one of his fantasies come to life, and he would die, he was sure of it. Once he could _breathe_ again, he carefully wiped her face clean with the sheet. 

“Come here,” she said warmly, holding her hands out to him. 

He obeyed without hesitation, lying next to her and wrapping her up in his arms. She pulled the blanket over them, nestled against his side, and sighed happily. They were quiet for a long time.

“You know, you taste divine,” she said at length, apropos of nothing, startling him from the haze of his thoughts. “I’ve always thought so.”

“Always—“ he repeated with confusion. “How would you know?”

She laughed. “Minrathous. We fucked like rabbits, you know. Couldn’t keep our hands off each other for two seconds.”

He blinked. She had refused to speak of their time in Minrathous, and he didn’t know why she was now, of all times, willing to talk about it. “But Danarius…”

“He didn’t know. Or at least, we thought he didn’t know. I guess he knew more than we figured, given that he wiped your memory after I left.”

“But why would you give your… body… to a slave?”

“Well, the first time was because I felt sorry for you,” she said bluntly. “Danarius had done something to you and sent you to me, and sweet Maker, if you could have seen the way you looked at me.” She trailed off, remembering. “But I didn’t just give my body to you. We were… close.”

“Close?” It seemed impossible, _in his master’s house_, that he would have pursued her.

“We cared for each other.” She scrubbed a hand over her nose. “A lot, I think.”

A memory stirred, glimpsed once before, of being curled up against her with his cheek on her shoulder. Like lovers would do. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed, but she didn’t notice.

“I still care about you,” she said quietly.

He tensed, and she immediately smoothed her hand across his stomach. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said quickly. “I’m not asking anything of you. I just… thought you should know.”

She yawned against his shoulder. “I’m going to sleep now,” she said. “You wore me right out. Good night, Fenris.”

He said nothing.


	16. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Poe - Haunted](https://youtu.be/o3lBF2h-Pl0)

Hawke woke slowly. She was rested, sated, _Maker’s breath_ sore. And…alone.

She looked over at the pillow next to her own. A brief vision of messy white hair splayed across it danced behind her eyelids, and she smiled briefly before remembering, right, alone. A soft metallic noise from her right caught her attention and she turned her head.

Fenris stood like an untouchable idol, fastening the catch on his gauntlet with his back to her. The firelight glimmered on his black metal armor, and she had never loved him more. Still, beyond the soft feelings warming her stomach, she could tell by the tense set of his shoulders and his lowered head - and the fact he wasn’t still in her bed - that something was wrong.

Humor came first. “Was it that bad?” she quipped, propping her head up on her palm and turning toward him. The sheet she kept tastefully draped over her still nude form. 

He startled and turned to her. “I’m sorry—it’s not—it was fine.” His voice was halting, hesitant. She felt her stomach drop. Seeming to return to himself, he amended, “No, that is insufficient. It was better than anything I could have dreamed.”

Well, that was a _little_ better, anyway. It didn’t explain this coldness, the tense atmosphere, the way Fenris could barely meet her eyes. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I… began to remember. My life before. Just flashes. It’s too much—this is too fast—I cannot… do this.” He was pacing now, gesturing violently with his hands, his voice trembling.

“Don’t you… want to get your memories back?” 

“Perhaps you don’t realize how upsetting this is,” he snapped. “I’ve never remembered anything, and to have it all come back in a rush only to lose it… I can’t.” His voice broke. “I can’t.”

She sat up, bunching the sheet under her arms, and ached to take his hand in hers. Trying to keep the pleading out of her voice, she said, “Fenris, we can work through this.” She swallowed hard at the expression on his face: lost, hurt, resigned.

“I’m sorry. I feel like such a fool. All I wanted was to be happy, for a little while.” He paused, glancing once more at her face before his eyes slid away, and then he was walking to the door, _leaving_, murmuring a heartbroken, “Forgive me.”

The door closed behind him, and the reality of the situation came crashing over her. Her eyes were prickling with tears that she refused to shed. Varric’s words from months ago echoed in her mind; _you know, he might have some issues_. She had thought they could work through anything. He had blossomed so much during the time they had known each other, from his frightened subservience as a slave to the burgeoning friendship slash flirtation they had developed since he arrived in Kirkwall and back in her life. He had come to her, and for a moment she was desperately angry, angry that she had taken him in when he was on the run from Danarius, angry that he had used her power against the Tevinter hunters, angry that she had opened her heart to him at all. But the flame of anger was snuffed out as quickly as it had come on, and all that was left was loss. She pulled the sheet up over her head, laid back down, and drifted back to sleep.

—

“Well, Varric, you always did know everything,” Hawke said as she breezed into Varric’s suite in the Hanged Man the following evening. She had spent the day wallowing in bed, claiming a headache to ease Bodahn’s worry, nursing her wounded heart and coming to terms with the fact that, quite realistically, she may never see Fenris again. She wouldn’t put it past him to disappear after everything that had happened. She had never cried, despite her moping, and after a full day in bed she decided that there was nothing for it but to get up, have a bath, and start her life over.

Varric looked up from his book with raised eyebrows. “Finally realized that, did you?” he grinned. “Have a seat, Hawke, and a drink. You look like hell.”

And she did. She knew she did, despite everything she had done to make herself look as, well, _normal_ as possible. But nothing could hide the dark circles under her eyes or the slumped posture despite her best attempts. “I’ve had better days,” she agreed before she wandered out to the main hall to order herself a drink. She returned to the suite and sunk into a chair at Varric’s table with a heavy sigh. She didn’t say anything for a long time, and Varric let her sit and drink in peace, knowing she would talk when she was good and ready.

Finally she shook her head, as if clearing it of cobwebs. “I need a favor.”

He cocked his head. “Oh? What can I do for the mighty Champion of Kirkwall?”

She carefully averted her gaze. “I need you to keep an eye on Fenris for me. Just in case anyone from Tevinter shows up, or he gets in trouble he can’t handle.”

“And I need to do this because…?”

Her eyes bore a hole in the table. “I don’t think he will be coming along with us for a while. Or… ever. I don’t know. I just want to make sure he’s okay.” She sounded lost, small. So unlike Hawke that Varric leaned forward and put a hand on hers. 

“Tell me the story when you’re ready, Hawke,” he said, knowing she wasn’t prepared to tell the tale just yet. “In the meantime I’ll get in touch with my contacts. If anyone comes knocking on Broody’s door, we’ll know about it.”

Finally looking up, she gave him a wan smile. “Thanks, Varric. You’re a good friend.”

—

Fenris was drunk, but that didn’t stop him from pacing unsteadily back and forth in front of his fireplace. He kept trying to get the memories back, as if he could will them into being simply by wishing it to be true. Whispers of names and faces hovered just on the edge of his memory, like a song that one could recognize but not place.

He swore, downed another bitter gulp of wine, and shook his head violently. Floating in his mind, stronger than the half-remembered vestiges of his life before the markings, was Hawke’s face, so hurt and betrayed as he committed his most cowardly act. It had been two weeks since he ran with his tail between his legs and never looked back. No one had been to see him, and he suspected that was her doing as well. She knew him better than he knew himself, he thought bitterly, and she knew he needed time alone to lick his wounds. A kindness where he deserved none, and it stung.

But perhaps Hawke’s interference wasn’t ironclad, he thought as Isabela breezed into the room, a bottle of something alcoholic in her hand and her hips swaying. He stood at the fireplace and said nothing.

“Don’t you think this brooding has gone on long enough?” Isabela asked, sinking into one of his chairs and throwing her booted feet up on the table, crossed at the ankles. “Hawke’s over it, so I don’t see why you can’t be too.”

And Maker, that stung. Hawke was _over it_? As if their dalliance had meant as little as one of Isabela’s conquests and his leaving had not marked her heart as it had his? Unable to keep the vitriol from his voice, he asked sharply, “How do you know she is over it?”

Isabela took a swig from her bottle. “She was at Wicked Grace last night. That’s more than we can say of you.”

Fenris stared into the fire. He was not Hawke. Hawke thrived in the company of these people she called family. Naturally she would have gone running to them, instead of locking herself in her estate to mope. His heart was in his throat. Suddenly the walls felt like they were closing in, like there was not enough air for his starving lungs.

“I’m leaving,” he finally gasped. 

That got Isabela’s attention. She swung her feet down and sat forward. “Where?”

“I… don’t know.”

“When?”

He was silent.

She sighed and pulled herself to her feet. In a move that shocked him, she walked over and wrapped him in a hug from behind. It didn’t last long - just long enough for him to start to bristle - before she let go and stepped back. He looked at her, lost and questioning, and she smiled thinly. “We’ve all run from our problems at some point. Just do me a favor and let someone know when you’ve gotten where you’re going, all right? Just in case.”

“I… will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the end of Act II. Let's be sad together. Again.
> 
> Act III will be up tomorrow!
> 
> P.S. I hope you're listening to the chapter songs. I am really proud of them. I'll be making a Spotify playlist at some point if you're interested.


	17. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Ute Lemper - Passionate Fight](https://youtu.be/ou2wfFZgIk8)
> 
> Why do I like writing people fighting so much? That must say something about me.

** Act III **

Six months, not that she was counting. Somehow she had fallen back into a modicum of normalcy, and for that she thanked her friends, who had smoothed over the situation with Fenris with their usual grace and candor. She was thankful, so thankful. Still, when she lay in bed staring at the fireplace, Crowley laying across her legs, seeing Fenris’ ghost a hundred times, her heart ached. But she was the Champion of Kirkwall. She would never, ever, admit that she was weak to a runaway slave with a voice like honey and eyes like forest moss and—

Hawke slammed the front door harder than she intended and stalked into the living room. Her eyes opened wide as she saw the array of white lilies covering her writing desk. Her mother stood in front of one of the delicate vases, arranging the flowers with a soft smile. At Hawke’s entrance, she looked up and smiled broadly. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“What’s all this?”

Leandra had the grace to blush. “It’s quite refreshing to think I can be courted at this age, don’t you think?”

And no, she was not jealous of her mother. She didn’t have a brief flash of Fenris standing at her doorstep, holding a bouquet of mixed wildflowers because he would be too embarrassed to go to a proper flower shop to get something for her, an apology on his lips and love in his eyes. _Maker’s breath_. 

She would regret that moment a thousand times over a week later, holding the desiccated corpse that had become her mother in her arms as she knelt among the remains of blood magic and shades. She knew her companions were speaking, but all she heard was static as she stared down at her mother. The stitches along her face, the pale, unseeing shine of her eyes. Had she really brought her tea that morning? It felt so far away.

It occurred to her that the last of her immediate family was gone. First father, then Bethany, Carver, and now her mother. The Hawke line ended with her.

She distantly wondered what Gamlen would say.

“Hawke.” Varric’s hand was heavy on her shoulder. “I think we’d better go.”

“I can’t leave her,” Hawke said, her voice coming from somewhere very far away.

“The guard will take care of it,” Aveline assured her. “But Varric is right. We should go.”

—

_Fenris,_

_Look, I don’t know how to say this. I think you need to come back. Hawke’s mother, she’s gone. Blood magic and necromancy and everything bad. Hawke’s lost. Gamlen’s the only family she has left and he blames her for everything._

_None of us can reach her. I’ve never seen her like this, and I’m worried. But maybe she’d respond to you. I don’t know, but can you try? _

_Varric_

He was on the next ship to Kirkwall.

—

A tray of uneaten food sat on her nightstand. When was the last time she ate? Slept? Bathed? The grief was so raw, so poignant, that time seemed to stand still and rush forward all at once. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring into the fire. Crowley was on the floor next to her, his massive head resting on his paws, looking up at her with baleful eyes.

“I don’t know what to say, but, I am here.”

Her head snapped up and she looked at him, eyes glassy, mouth open in disbelief. For a moment it looked like she would cry, but she swallowed it down and looked away. “Am I to blame for not saving her?” she asked, voice deadened as she stared into the fire. 

Fenris took three steps closer. “I could say no, but would that help?” He paused. “You are looking for forgiveness, but I’m not the one who can give it to you.”

“Why are you here, Fenris?”

What could he say? That he wanted to crawl on his knees and beg for her forgiveness? That the moment he had found out that she might need him, he had dropped everything to rush to her aid? That he was a coward, a fool, lovesick and desperate? 

“I thought… maybe you needed a friend.”

She huffed a laugh. “Are we friends?”

“I would like to be.” And more. So much more. The words shriveled and died on his tongue.

“We should talk about—“

“I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice came out like iron instead of the scared whimper he felt inside. She flinched and said nothing. They remained there, at an impasse, until he swallowed his pride and moved to sit beside her on the bed. “I am sorry about your mother,” he said at last.

“Thank you for coming, I guess,” she said quietly. 

_I guess_. That stung, but he tamped down the immediate hurt. What was he expecting? She had just lost her mother. He had just appeared after nary a word after six months. Did he think she would jump to her feet and welcome him with open arms, when he had been so adamant that what they felt was nothing? 

He stood. “If you have need of me, I will be at the mansion.”

She looked up at him, not bothering to hide her surprise. “You’re staying?”

“I am… at your disposal.” Coward. Fool coward and more. Before he could throw himself at her feet, he turned and left.

—

Fenris was prepared for a lot of things. Slavers, mercenaries, tax collectors. What he was not prepared for, however, was Hawke to show up at his door at midnight completely shitfaced.

She stumbled into the mansion like she belonged there, but he had to hold a hand on her back to ensure she made it up the stairs without falling. So far she had said nothing, and in his confusion, he was equally silent. Once in his room she sunk into the chair, grabbed the wine bottle he had been nursing, and took a long pull.

He sat across from her and just… watched. He had seen Hawke drunk before, but this was different. There was a desperate look in her eyes, a hardness to her mouth. She was not the happy-go-lucky, touch-fueled Hawke he knew from the Hanged Man. Again and again she drank, draining the bottle until he reached out and took it from her.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he said gently.

She gave him a dirty look. “You don’t own me.”

A memory surfaced. _“Whose are you?”_

_“Yours.”_

He forced it down and away. Carefully, he asked, “Is this about your mother?”

She was silent for a long time, staring down at her hands. “I don’t have anyone left. I don’t even have a mother to scold me for being an idiot. No one wants me.” She looked at him hard. “You wanted me once.”

And wanted her still, but he would never say it. “Hawke—“

“No, don’t interrupt me. You _left_, Fenris. I wanted to help you, I _cared_ about you, and you left me. I thought you cared about me, and you _left_.” She jumped to her feet and stumbled to his chair on unsteady legs. “I hate you for that.”

“I came back.”

“I _hate_ you,” she slurred, and then she slapped him. It was the weakest slap he had ever received, but he felt anger spark low in his belly, replacing the concern. He jumped to his feet, eyes like steel. How dare she act like she was the only one who had suffered, when he had spent every night for six months in a room that wasn’t his own, longing for her? 

Maker help him, he longed for her even now.

“I never cared that you were a slave,” she continued, getting in his face. “Never once. But it’s all you talk about. It’s all you think about. All you care about is your precious Danarius and your precious revenge and how much you hate mages like me.”

“You have _no idea_ what it’s like to be a slave,” he said angrily. The words stung more than he cared to admit, but he would nurse his wounded pride later. 

“Did you ever really care about me? Or was I just a tool to protect you from Danarius?”

“How could you even think—“ he hissed, but she interrupted him.

“I _hate_ you, you thrice-damned _asshole_,” she said again, and she raised her hand as if to slap him once more.

He grabbed her by the arms and shook her, his voice like venom. “_Venhedis_, woman, I swear on the Maker himself that if you strike me again, you will regret it.”

“Don’t touch me!” she yelled, jerking out of his grasp. “Don’t you dare touch me, unless you mean it.”

“I have always meant it,” he growled. He grabbed her again, pulling her forward, and slammed his mouth down on hers. There was nothing gentle, nothing loving in the kiss. There was nothing kind in the way he held her neck too tight, or the way she struggled against him. There was only anger, and he punished her for her words, for her hubris, for thinking he didn’t care about her. When her teeth came down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, he shoved her away and she stumbled backwards before falling on her ass. She glared up at him, fire in her gaze.

He started to pace, refusing to look at her. She sat silently where she had fallen, folding in on herself and resting her head on her knees. As time ticked by, both of their anger was starting to simmer away, leaving tension but no fury.

“Why are you here, Hawke?” he said at last.

Bafflingly, she started to cry. “I don’t know.” Fenris abruptly stopped pacing and looked down at her, startled. He had never seen Hawke cry. She had been in plenty of situations that had called for it, but she had always been strong, undaunted. 

She was not a pretty crier. Her chest heaved with gasping sobs, and great tears rolled down her furiously red cheeks. Unable to help himself, he knelt beside her and rested a hand on her back.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said, voice muffled against her knees. “You don’t have the right.”

“I don’t,” he agreed quietly. “But I care all the same.”

She tipped over against him, burying her face in his chest and crying hard. He brought his arms up around her and let her cry into him. When at last her tears were spent, she scrubbed angrily at her eyes but did not move from his embrace. “I miss my mother.”

“Yes.”

“The estate… it’s so empty. She doesn’t bring me tea in the morning anymore.”

He smoothed a hand across her back and said nothing.

“I don’t really hate you.”

A relief, but he didn’t say so.

“Everything is terrible.”

“This will pass, Hawke,” he said softly. “You will get through this. And… I will be here.”

“You won’t leave again?”

On this, at least, he could be certain. “No.”

—

She woke up in an unfamiliar room. But it wasn’t unfamiliar, she realized groggily. It was _Fenris’_ room. She was in Fenris’ bed, tucked in carefully, a pillow under her head.

Her head was pounding and her mouth was dry and tasted like something had crawled into it and died. She had vague memories - had they fought? Why was she here? But nothing was clear, too fogged by peach brandy and wine and _emotions_. Glancing around, she saw that Fenris was not in the room. That was, almost, a relief. At least she wouldn’t have to face him.

She carefully got out of bed and staggered back down to sit on it. The world was spinning, her eyes crossed. How did Fenris deal with this every morning?

Once the world came to a stop and she felt marginally better, she tried again to stand up. This time her feet were a little steadier, and she crossed the room to the door. She didn’t know where Fenris was, but hopefully she could sneak out before he even noticed she was gone.

No such luck, she realized when she left the room and moved to the stairs. He was in the main hall, dressed in a leather jerkin and his leggings, swinging his sword and moving through the steps of his training. For a while she just let herself look - he was so graceful, so powerful, and she would always love looking at the man. But then he seemed to notice her presence, his steps stuttering out of time, and he dropped the sword to his side.

“You’re awake,” he said.

“I think I might be dead.” She took the steps carefully, leaning heavily on the railing. “How do you do this all the time?”

He laughed. _Laughed_. She felt it in her gut. “You were considerably more drunk than I usually get.” He paused, eyes sliding away from her. “How much… do you remember of last night?”

She shook her head. “Not enough,” she said honestly. “I probably made a right ass of myself, didn’t I.”

If she had, he said nothing. “I will accompany you back to your estate,” he said, and he felt so _formal_. There was a new barrier between them and she cursed herself a fool for even coming here last night.

The walk was not long, but her thoughts were churning and he was so silent and stiff that she felt as if they had travelled miles and miles before they finally reached her front door. He made as if to leave, and she quickly said, “Fenris.”

He turned to look at her, one eyebrow lifted.

The question was burning her, but humiliating. “We didn’t… uh… sleep together last night, did we?”

His gaze went flinty. “Before or after you told me you hated me?” he sniped, his polite facade slipping.

Her hand flew to her mouth. _Maker_. “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly, then, just in case it had to be said, “I don’t hate you. Uh. Today, anyway.” She offered him a small smile.

He looked at her, searching, before looking away. “Elfroot for the headache,” he said briskly, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking about writing an offshoot to explore what Fenris is doing during the six months away. Would anyone be interested in that?


	18. Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Babe I Got You Bad](https://youtu.be/Zgue5Pffeso)

This was, quite possibly, the stupidest thing she had ever done. But weeks had gone by since the night she had accosted him in his manor, and though he didn’t always talk, didn’t quite comfort her, Fenris had been an unwavering presence at her side, as if he was serving penance for leaving for so long. They had slowly evolved back into a friendship, tentative and halting, but a friendship nonetheless.

She was so glad he hadn’t left again.

She adjusted the box under her arm and cracked her neck. She could see the glimmer of firelight in the upstairs window, so he was undoubtedly home. While she had come here on occasion, usually to drink and share the odd story, she never felt quite welcome the way she had before… everything. He was always kind to her, in that gruff way he had, but there was so much unspoken between them that she was never quite sure what was safe to say.

And then this… She shifted the box again. A foolish notion, spur of the moment and completely insane, but here she was all the same. She knocked.

At length the door opened and Fenris peered outside. “Surprise,” she said with a smile. She held up the bottle of wine she carried like an offering. “I brought wine.”

He opened the door wide and let her in. “You know that the cellars here are endless,” he said. And it was true - one night they had drunkenly stumbled down to investigate them. 

“Yes, but this is special wine. Friendship wine.” Maker, she sounded like a fool. She rolled her eyes at herself and followed him upstairs. 

They settled into their respective chairs and she set the box on the table between them. “I… got you something.” 

He raised an eyebrow. She nudged the box forward, ignoring the nervous fluttering in her belly. 

He turned his attention to the box, pulling it forward and untying the messily-done ribbon - she had done it herself despite Bodahn’s protests. Carefully he lifted the lid from the box and gazed inside, both eyebrows raising in surprise. 

Two wineglasses. Not that she didn’t love to share a bottle directly with him, perversely enjoying the thought that his lips had been where hers were, but these were special. She had had them specially engraved; one sported a hawk in flight, the other a wolf prowling. 

She twisted her fingers in her robe and waited for him to say something, _anything_. But he just sat staring at the wineglasses in silence, his face an unreadable mask. He pulled the wolf wineglass from the box and twirled it carefully in his fingers. 

“I have… never had possessions of my own,” he said, keeping his eyes on the glass. “Slaves were not permitted them, and I suppose it was just… a habit I never broke.”

“Well these are yours,” she said with a smile. “Except the hawk one. I call dibs on that when we’re drinking.”

He shifted in his seat and met her eyes. “This was… a thoughtful gesture. Thank you.”

The knot of anxiety in her belly unravelled. “Let’s break them in, shall we?”


	19. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Stateless - Bloodstream](https://youtu.be/V3b1CDLsiGU)

Unresolved sexual tension.

That was what Isabela had said to Hawke three days earlier, thinking Fenris and the others out of earshot. “If you don’t do something soon, I will,” Isabela had added with a sneer. Hawke punched her in the shoulder, and Fenris smiled into his mug. 

The thing was, the pirate wasn’t _wrong_. They had been doing a delicate dance for months now, neither brave enough to act on the feelings that were, quite obviously to _everyone_ in the room, once again brewing between them. He found himself alone in his mansion, too hot before the fire, taking himself in hand as he remembered her scent, her touch, her warm body under his hands. The release always came quickly, unsatisfying, dull in comparison to the reality of her. 

It was even worse now that she had relaxed in his presence. For the first month at least after his return, she had treated him cooly, like one would an acquaintance. It was maddening and heartbreaking in turn, but he erected a barrier between them to keep his own feelings at bay. Still, slowly she had unfurled, and sometimes she would touch his arm or his shoulder, or she would laugh delightedly at one of his dry quips, and he would feel his heart skip in his chest. 

It was getting harder and harder to stay away from her.

The raging _jealousy_ he felt was not helping. It appeared that during the time he had been away, Hawke and the abomination had become close. He laughed at her jokes, and she would wrap an arm around him and tug him close to her side when she had one too many ales. It was maddening, and he could do nothing but watch. He had eventually stopped coming to Wicked Grace nights because he couldn’t stand it, but Isabela had shown up after his second absence and all but bodily forced him into Lowtown.

“Where have you been?” Hawke asked. Isabela shoved him onto the bench next to Hawke - next to her as opposed to across from her for the first time since his return. 

“I have been…busy,” he said haltingly. She raised an eyebrow at him but did not comment.

“I missed you,” she said. She had clearly been drinking; her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. “Er. We missed you, that is.”

His heart skipped a beat. “I will endeavor not to be absent again.”

“Good.” She smiled sunnily at him and threaded her arm through his. “You owe me a drink for making me worry about you.”

The night did not go well. Or rather, it went _too_ well. Drink made Hawke want to touch, and sitting next to her was pure torture. More than once she had rested a hand on his thigh, making his skin burn, and leaned towards him to whisper sensually - did she know she was doing that? - into his over-sensitive ears. She leaned against his side, tugging his arm until it was resting around her, and dropped her head to rest on his shoulder with what he could only call a _dreamy sigh_. He noticed the way Isabela, and Varric, and even _Aveline_ kept shooting them looks, and yet he was powerless to resist her. 

He lost all his coin.

As the night wore on and the Hanged Man started to empty, Hawke stretched her arms above her head with an exaggerated yawn. “I better get back,” she said. She wasn’t slurring, not quite, but she was close.

“Broody, you better walk her home,” Varric said. “Make sure she gets there.”

How could he resist?

They had not made it back to the stairs leading to Hightown when she suddenly tugged on his hand. “I want to show you something,” she said brightly. 

“I don’t think you are in any state to—“

“You sound like my mother,” she groused. It was the first time she had mentioned her mother in weeks. “Just come on.” Much to his surprise, she threaded her fingers with his, ignoring the sharp points of the gauntlets, and led him forward. She swung their arms between them and hummed to herself, and for the moment Fenris allowed them to just… be. Her hand was warm against his palm, and the way she held his hand was so natural, like he belonged there. For a moment he let himself pretend that they were lovers on their way to some secret place only they shared.

They walked, and occasionally she stumbled into him with a giggle, and she kept hold of his hand. He realized they were heading towards the docks and also realized that his sword was at home. “Hawke, this isn’t wise,” he said. “You know what kind of people lurk here after dark.”

She smiled, and he went stock still when she moved over and pressed herself against his side. He could feel her curves against him and his throat went dry. She leaned forward until her lips were brushing against his ear. “I don’t need to worry. I have my big, strong elf to protect me,” she murmured, and then she licked a stripe along his ear. He shivered, growing hard in his leggings despite himself, and groaned.

“_Fasta vass_, woman, you’re drunk.”

“Only a little.” She winked at him and continued walking. He discreetly adjusted himself and followed, unable to deny her. They continued down the docks until they reached a little alcove, hidden from view of the rest of the docks, but with a magnificent view of the water. She let go of his hand and sunk down to sit on the stone, both legs bent and her arms draped over her knees. At her look, he sat down next to her.

“This is my favorite place in Kirkwall,” she sighed happily, swaying back and forth as if to an imaginary song. “I used to come here all the time when we lived at Gamlen’s. It was the only place I could be alone.”

“You are not alone now,” he said stupidly.

“I don’t want to be.” She looked over at him, meeting his eyes, and she suddenly looked so intent and so, so sober. 

He swallowed hard. “Hawke—“ he tried, but she shook her head.

“Don’t.” She broke their gaze and rested her chin on her knees. For a while they were silent, listening to the waves lapping along the docks. He slowly unwound, relaxing his posture a little, before she spoke again. “Fenris. What am I to you?”

He stiffened again. What could he say? That he would run the length of Thedas and back if she asked him to? That he would do anything she wished, no matter how outlandish? That he regretted leaving her, regretted it more than anything he had ever done, and desperately wished for her forgiveness and her love?

“You are… my friend,” he said haltingly. _Fool coward and more_. 

“Oh.” She seemed to wilt beside him. 

_Say something. Say something! Do something!_ His inner voice was howling, desperate, and yet he was too petrified to correct himself. 

“I’m drunk!” she suddenly cried, jumping to her feet. “We better get back.”

_No! No!_ He stood and, in one blinding moment of drunken courage, pulled her into his arms. She went stiff, then melted against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She rested the side of her head against his, and he inhaled the strawberry scent of her shampoo. She fit there in his arms like perfection. 

She pressed her face into his neck. “You know I love you,” she mumbled. 

His heart stopped. He forced breath in and out, forced his center of control back into being. “You’re drunk,” he said helplessly.

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

He tried, over and over, to make himself say something. He felt like he was in a dream. She stroked along his spine, the skin that was exposed by the armor, and just… hugged him. It was so perfect and magical and… he could not make the words come. He was a slave - an escaped slave, but a slave nonetheless - and an elf, living in a borrowed mansion, and she deserved more than he could give her. So much more. 

At last, she let him go. “We better get back,” she said, and her voice was so sad that he wanted to sweep her back into his arms. 

They walked back to Hightown in silence.


	20. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Florence + The Machine - Kiss With a Fist](https://youtu.be/1SmxVCM39j4)
> 
> This is my favorite chapter of the whole story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

He was _flirting_. With _Isabela_. 

Isabela flirted with everyone. It was nothing new. But when he started flirting back, _right in front of her_, when they had barely spoken ten words to each other for the past three weeks, she swore she saw red. Red like his underclothes, _apparently_. She had never hated the pirate more. She had never hated _him_ more. She wanted nothing more but to shove them both into Lowtown and disappear in her mansion to have a good bath and a good sulk.

They set up camp on Sundermount, far enough away from the Dalish encampment that they wouldn’t be considered a threat, but close enough that the hunters could keep watch should anything get too close. She snapped her bedroll open several feet from the fire, ignoring Varric’s curious look, and threw her pack down next to it.

He was _flirting with Isabela_.

“I’ll be back,” she said to Varric. Fenris and Isabela were still deep in conversation, ignoring her and Varric both. Fighting the urge to set both of them aflame, she stomped off into the woods to the small stream that ran down from the mountains.

Hawke was not a soft woman. She was aggressive and brash and had a temper, but she rarely got _this_ pissed. She pulled the pins from her hair one by one, swearing with each pin to come free. Her hair tumbled down her back, dusty from a day on the road. She yanked her greaves and gloves off and dumped them unceremoniously on the bank of the stream, then waded out into the water. Leaning forward, she dunked her whole head in, attempting to cool her temper. The cold water was bracing, but it helped some. She inhaled and exhaled slowly as she worked her hands through her hair, washing it as best she could.

A branch snapped behind her, and she spun around with flames in her fist. Fenris raised his hands in a warding gesture. “It is only me,” he said.

Only me, as if he wasn’t the _last_ person in Thedas she wanted to see. She let the flame die and turned her back to him, returning to her hair. “What do you want, Fenris?” she asked, voice flat.

He took a few steps closer. “You shouldn’t leave camp on your own. Dark things prowl the mountain.” 

“I am _perfectly_ capable of taking care of myself,” she spat over her shoulder. _Care for a demonstration? I’ll burn you to ashes right now, fool elf._

“Even so,” he said, seemingly ignorant of her rage. He was staring at her, his eyes drifting over her wet hair, and where once she would have felt longing instead she only felt the hot sting of jealousy.

“Why don’t you go help _Isabela_ with her bedroll?”

“Why would—“

“In fact, why don’t you abandon your Hightown lifestyle and just move into her room in the Hanged Man? Lowtown suits you better.” She was hissing her words, staring down at the water because she couldn’t bear to look him in the eye.

“Isabela’s room?” he asked, voice full of confusion. 

“You two seem _quite_ friendly with each other,” she snarled. Her hackles raised even higher when he started laughing at her with that deep, gravelly chuckle she loved so much.

“Hawke… are you _jealous_?”

She spun to face him, sending water flying in every direction. He looked so _amused_, and so _smug_, and she wanted to punch him in the face. “I am not jealous!” she shouted. 

He closed the distance between them, stepping into the water before her. “I think you are,” he mused, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

She punched him. In the face, like she wanted to.

His head snapped to the side and his eyes went wide. He slowly turned his head back towards her and lifted a hand to his stinging cheek. “You punched me,” he said in wonder. 

“And I’ll set you on bloody fire next if you don’t get the fuck out of my way,” she said angrily, shoving him bodily out of her path and stomping to the shore. She grabbed her greaves, gloves and hair pins and stalked back to camp, leaving Fenris ankle-deep in the stream, holding his cheek.

Hawke laid on her bedroll and pulled the blanket over her head, refusing to speak to anyone. She squeezed her eyes shut and desperately wished for sleep. Fenris wasn’t back yet, and she _would not_ let herself worry about him. Varric and Isabela were chatting amiably, wisely leaving Hawke alone. She huffed and turned on her side, unable to get comfortable.

Time passed, and she could not sleep, and Fenris _still_ wasn’t back. Varric and Isabela didn’t seem concerned, each having gone to their bedrolls with a cheerful good night. She was just on the verge of getting up and going to look for him when soft footsteps entered the clearing.

She exhaled, but did not pull the blanket from over her head.

She felt him approach, like she was magnetized to him. Enough time had gone by that the worst of her temper had subsided, doused liberally by her worry over him. He stepped closer, stopping just at her bedroll, and dropped into a crouch.

“Hawke,” he said softly, so that only she would hear.

She pulled the blanket down to her nose, looking at him warily. She said nothing, but she noted curiously the way one hand was fiddling behind his back.

“I—forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.”

“I wasn’t upset,” she said petulantly.

“You hit me.”

“You deserved it.”

“I wasn’t flirting with Isabela,” he said with a sigh. “I… have no interest in her.”

“Why not? She’s beautiful. A wanton little slut, but beautiful.” Hawke rolled her eyes.

He cleared his throat, but did not look away, though it was clear he wanted to. “My attentions are… elsewhere.”

She felt her heart leap in her chest. _Traitor_. “Oh?”

He shifted uncomfortably and did finally look away. He brought his hand from behind his back. Carefully held between his metal-clad fingers was a single flower of the deepest crimson. Merrill would have known what it was, she thought distantly. “It’s your favorite color, is it not?” He sounded so unsure, but still he held the flower out to her. 

“Yes.” This couldn’t be real. Clearly she had fallen asleep and was dreaming. Or had fallen on the stream bank and bonked her head. Anything but this reality of Fenris crouching beside her bedroll offering her a flower like he was a prince trying to win over the maiden in the tower. 

She must have stared too long in silence, because he suddenly stood, turning his face away. “It was a fool notion, I apologize,” he said quickly, making as if to leave.

“Fenris!” She reached out and grabbed what she could: his ankle. He stumbled and turned back towards her, looking down at her in confusion. She tugged at his ankle, trying to get him to come back down. At last he did, twirling the flower between his fingers but no longer attempting to give it to her.

Hawke held her hand out. He looked at her hand, then her face, then her hand again. At length he laid the flower carefully across her palm. “It’s not a fool notion,” she said, smiling. She ran a fingertip across the soft petals. They sat in silence for a few moments before she said, “I’m sorry I hit you.”

“I’m used to punishment,” he said, and she jerked her eyes up but, surprisingly, found no hint of angst in his gaze. He was staring at her hair again; she had not pinned it up after her fit of pique. 

“Your face hurt my fist,” she lied. “I have delicate mage hands, you know.”

She was completely unprepared for him to take her right hand in his and raise it to eye level. He inspected it for a moment, and she sucked in a quick breath when he brushed his lips over her knuckles. They stared at each other in silence, and at length he reached out and ran a hand through her hair. She let her eyes flutter closed, reveling in his touch. Carefully she set the flower next to her, and then reached out to place a hand on each of his hips. “Fenris,” she breathed, pulling him closer to her.

Isabela snored loudly, and Fenris skittered backwards like a scared cat. “Forgive me,” he said with wide eyes. “I should not have presumed—forgive me.”

“Wait, Fenris—“

“Forgive me.” He jumped to his feet and scurried to his bedroll, lying down and turning his back to her. She stared at his back for a long time before she laid back down and, finally, fell asleep.


	21. Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Elbow - The Bones of You](https://youtu.be/-r3Bs_KkP94) (This song is Hawke's POV. Pretty much all the others are Fenris'.)

She hadn’t seen Fenris in four days.

While this was not strictly unusual, Fenris being notorious for retreating to his mansion for alone time at his leisure, he had missed Wicked Grace on Tuesday and that _was_ unusual.

Hawke spent some time debating, pacing her study while Crowley snoozed by the fire. Whatever they were to each other now, this tenuous friendship that sometimes dipped into _something more_, she wasn’t sure she had the right to… well, anything, really. If he was brooding in his manor for one reason or another, who was she to interfere? It wouldn’t be welcome, of that she was almost sure. Almost.

“This is stupid,” she said to the fire. “I’m his friend and friends are allowed to check on each other if one disappears.” Resolve hardened, she left the study and went to get properly dressed.

Fifteen minutes later she was standing outside Fenris’ mansion, worrying her lip between her teeth and hesitating with her fist hovering over the door. Working up all her courage, she knocked in the special way she always did to alert him that it was her and not slavers or tax collectors or whoever else. She waited, and there was no response. She took a few steps back, peering up into the second story windows, and sure enough there was a soft glow from the room she knew he occupied. 

Maybe he was ignoring her. Maybe he was injured. Maybe he was drunk. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to leave now. Not until she found out what was going on.

The door was not locked, and she shook her head in exasperation as she pushed it open and stepped inside. “Fenris?” she called. No answer. A little knot of worry was starting to solidify in her gut, and if she took the steps to the second floor two at a time, well, who could blame her? His chamber door was half open, weak firelight spilling into the foyer, and she poked her head in.

He was on the floor in a nest of blankets and pillows. More sumptuous than he had had as a slave, to be sure, but her heart ached at the fact he still couldn’t bring himself to sleep in a bed all these years later. He was in his leggings and a loose-fitting white linen shirt with long sleeves and laces up the front. It was soaked, sticking to his skin, and she could see the sweat on his brow even from her position by the door. 

Hesitation forgotten, she rushed to his side and dropped to her knees. “Maker’s breath, Fenris, how long has this been going on?” She reached out and brushed the back of her fingers across his sweaty forehead. “You’re burning up!”

“Three days,” he croaked, his voice gravelly from sickness and disuse. Not asleep then.

“Fool man,” she scolded. “Why didn’t you send for me?”

He didn’t respond other than to run his fingers through messy, wet white hair. She took his hand in hers, alarmed at how scorching hot his skin was. “Do you… want me to heal you?” she asked tentatively.

“No magic.” It was no more than she expected. Since the night she had found him on her doorstep he had been adamant about not being healed. He wouldn’t allow Hawke, or Maker forbid Anders, or even more horrifying Merrill cast the slightest spell on him. 

“I’ll be back,” she promised. She stood and left the room, heading for the small bath chamber down the hall. The bath was blessedly clean, unlike the rest of the room, and she filled the tub. Sticking her hand in she conjured a small ice spell, enough to cool the water without making it shockingly cold. She returned to him and he was groaning with pain and fever.

“Can you walk?” She wasn’t strong, not like him, and there was no way she could carry him. “I drew you a bath.”

He opened his eyes at last and they were glassy with sickness. “I will try.”

She helped him to a sitting position and wedged herself under his arm as they both pushed him to his feet. She wrapped one arm around his waist and held the arm around her shoulders with her other hand, and with slow, shuffling steps they made it to the bathing chamber. By the time they got there he was panting with effort, his head lolling back and forth. She helped him to sit on the bench and placed her hands on her hips, looking him over and ignoring the faint blush spreading across her cheeks at what came next.

“You’re not going to like this.” He looked up at her, not comprehending. “Just remember it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she added breezily, sounding more nonchalant than she felt. 

She lifted the shirt over his head, struggling a little with the sleeves as he could not lift his arms. Her heart beat fast at the sight of all that smooth coffee skin revealed to her, the lyrium tattoos artful and curving, and forced herself to concentrate. Kneeling down, she undid the laces of his leggings. He weakly placed his hand on hers to stop her, and she tutted at him. “I don’t think you want your clothes wet, do you? Up you go.” She lifted his hips and pulled the leggings down and off, leaving him only in his smallclothes. _Those_ she didn’t want to remove, for fear of his wrath, so she smiled at him and wrapped his arm around her shoulders once more. It took him several tries to swing his leg over the edge of the tub, but at last he sunk into the water with a distant sigh.

“Is it too cold?”

He shook his head, resting it against the lip of the tub. His eyes were closed again, and he was limp in the water. Reminding herself that they were friends, _friends_, this was nothing friends wouldn’t do for each other, she dipped a washcloth into the water and then began to gently rub it across his face. She patted his forehead, letting the cool cloth rest there for a short while, then moved to the back of his neck. With infinite care she rubbed him down, his chest, his arms, his legs. his stomach, and did not let herself remember the last time she had all this skin at her mercy.

At length his skin cooled, the fever still burning but having lost some of its fierceness, and she was worried about leaving him in the water any longer. “Fenris,” she said softly, shaking his shoulder. “Fenris, wake up.”

His eyes slowly opened. He didn’t look at her but through her, still lost in the fog of fever. To his credit, he helped as much as he could as she wrangled him out of the tub and back to the bench. Keeping her touch gentle, she wiped him down with a towel, being most careful with his hair. Maker, how she loved his hair. It was soft and messy and so _him_. She watched as a trickle of water slipped from his hair down his ear, and without thinking she swiped it away with her thumb. He shuddered and leaned into the touch and she snatched her hand away like she’d been burned. 

“Time to get you back to bed,” she said in a choked voice. It had been bad enough holding him against her with linen and leather between them, but the thought of all that skin pressed against her side was making her mind race with decidedly un_friend_ly thoughts. Somehow she managed to get him back to the nest of blankets without mauling him, and she swept her cloak from its spot on the back of the chair and wrapped him in it. 

“I’ll be back,” she promised, turning to leave.

His hand shot out and gripped her around the wrist with surprising strength. “Hawke,” he murmured. “Don’t go.”

Well, a _little_ longer wouldn’t hurt. She settled beside him, tugging him so that his head lay in her lap, and stroked her fingers through his hair. He rearranged himself so that his arms were wrapped weakly around her waist. Maker, but she never stopped being surprised by this man.

The evening wore on, and he slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares than she smoothed away with cool hands on his forehead and whispered words of comfort. The fever still had not broken, and she would have to send for Bodahn at some point, but she was so _comfortable_ and this felt so _right_. She was dozing off herself when she felt callused fingers running up her spine, under her shirt. She jolted, staring down at him, but his eyes were still closed.

Okay. This was still something friends did. She would simply ignore the little bolts of electricity tripping along her skin.

“Hawke,” he said quietly. 

“Mm?”

“Do you remember when you said I could make you come with my voice alone?”

She choked, slamming a closed fist against her chest to make herself breath again. “Fenris, I don’t think—“

“And I did,” he continued, his voice so dark and self-satisfied and _sick_, she reminded herself, sick with fever and deliriousness and Maker knew what else and…

Wait a second. Since the beginning, he had insisted the memories were gone, faded, like a dream you can’t quite remember. “Fenris, do you… remember? Minrathous?”

“Pieces,” he sighed. “Sometimes it comes back to me. But then it always leaves again, and I feel—I feel—“ He faltered on the words and didn’t speak for a long time. She continued to comb through his hair with her fingers. 

She stared into the fire, her heart racing like a panicked rabbit. She thought he had gone back to sleep when he started talking again.

“Leaving you on the docks was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

She stared down at him in shock, and found that he was looking at her intently. Still sick, still delirious, and yet honest in a way he so rarely allowed himself to be. “I waited for you,” she admitted. “For two years. I was desperate to come back to Tevinter and get you. And then somehow you ended up on my doorstep.” She smiled wryly. “Funny old world, isn’t it.”

“Meeting you was the most important thing that ever happened to me, Hawke. I want you to know that.”

Tears sprung unbidden to her eyes and she scrubbed at them with the palm of her hand. Words tied up in her throat.

“I miss you.”

“You won’t remember this in the morning,” she said weakly. 

He reached up and placed both hands on her shoulders, using her as leverage to pull himself upright. She watched, speechless, as he leaned forward and buried his face in her neck, inhaling deeply. Then he was kissing her, peppering kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat, across her shoulder. He slipped one hand up and under her shirt, running his fingers along the bare skin of her side. “I want you,” he murmured against her throat. “It is a madness, and I can’t control it.”

How was she supposed to resist? She had been waiting months, years for this moment, and yet in the back of her mind she remembered that he was very ill, not himself, would not remember this moment when he was lucid again. Still, when he moved his head and pressed his lips to hers, she was lost. It was familiar and yet new, a new desperation born of too much time apart, and when he licked across her bottom lip she groaned and gripped his hips. He pushed her down on the blankets, crawled over her, situated himself between her thighs, never breaking the kiss that had turned wild and needy. She ran her fingers across his back - so much skin - and wrapped a leg around his hips. She could feel his hardness beneath his smallclothes, and she wanted him, _wanted_ him…

_You have to stop this_, she thought desperately. It had been three years since their night together and this wasn’t how she wanted their reunion to happen, him fevered and delirious and her taking advantage of his rare bout of honesty. 

“Fenris. Fenris, wait,” she gasped, pushing at his shoulders when he began to grind the hardness of his cock against her. “Wait, Maker damn you.” He pulled back, lips swollen from their kiss, hair messy and falling in his eyes. But the fever in those green depths made her know that she was doing the right thing. Damn it.

She scooted backwards to put distance between them. He looked so _bereft_. “I thought—I thought you wanted—“

“I did. I do.” She forced her breathing to even out. “But Fenris, you’re very sick. You probably won’t remember a Maker-damned thing tomorrow. And that _isn’t_ how I want this to go.” She stood. “If this is real, if you meant any of the things you said tonight, come to me. I’ve waited for you for five damn years. A little longer won’t hurt.” She smiled thinly. “I have to go. I’ll send Bodahn over in the morning.”

It hurt like knives to leave him there, but she forced her feet one after the other, his kiss still burning on her lips.


	22. Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [She Wants Revenge - A Hundred Kisses](https://youtu.be/XtbgpPuPmzg) (This song. _This song_. I rediscovered it on a recent roadtrip when I had my Spotify liked songs on shuffle and this story was just a bare seed of an idea. And it was this song, and thinking of this chapter, that inspired me to write at all.)

Danarius was dead.

Fenris replayed the moment in his head a hundred, a thousand times. It had been satisfying to finally, finally crush his heart in his fist, but the sting of betrayal and the knowledge that once again magic had ruined everything in his life made the victory taste like ashes in his mouth.

_“I am alone,” he had said, voice breaking. _

_“I’m here, Fenris,” she had said, and as he pressed a bloody hand to her cheek, he had never loved her more._

But that was a week ago, and he had done nothing but pace and drink and pace some more, alone with his thoughts and his misery. Hawke had not been to see him - _nobody_ had been by to see him - knowing that he needed time to process and, maybe, brood a little.

_I am a free man now_, he thought. _So why don’t I feel free?_

A footstep on the stair, and his sword was in his hand. Hawke poked her head into the room and smiled. “You don’t need to be so jumpy anymore, you know,” she said as she walked into the room, closing the door behind her. “You won’t be hunted now.”

He set the sword back on the ground and frowned. “Habit,” he said gruffly. She settled in the chair next to the fire, but he did not join her, instead opting to stand next to the fireplace with one hand on the mantel.

“You have a future now,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “You can do whatever you like.”

He sat down heavily. “Yes, I am free, Danarius is dead. And yet, it doesn’t feel like it should.” 

“Don’t tell me you miss Danarius,” she said incredulously. He gave her a dirty look, and she raised her hands in surrender. 

“Perhaps it is time to move forward,” he admitted. “I just don’t know where that leads. Do you?”

“Wherever it leads, I hope it means we’ll stay together.” Her voice was so calm, so honest. There was so much unsaid between them, and yet her eyes spoke volumes. He jumped to his feet again and looked away.

“We have never discussed what happened between us three years ago.”

“You didn’t want to talk about it.”

He sighed. “I felt like a fool. I thought it better if you hated me. I deserved no less. But it isn’t better.” He took a step towards her. He was afraid, deathly afraid, but this was a time for honesty. Hawke deserved that much. “That night… I remember your touch as if it were yesterday. I should have asked for your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now.”

“I need to understand why you left, Fenris,” she said softly.

“I’ve thought about the answer a thousand times,” he said, voice low and sad. “The pain, the memories it brought up. It was too much. I was a coward.” He squared his shoulders and forced himself to meet her eyes. “If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt.”

“What would you have said?”

Honesty. Somehow, after so long, the words were easy on his tongue. “Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

She gasped, a short intake of breath, her mouth slightly open. Then she composed herself and smiled. “I understand. I always understood,” she said warmly.

He closed the distance between them and leaned forward, a hand on either of the chair arms. “If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

She jumped up and threw her arms around him. He slammed his mouth down on hers, years of longing and silence melting away into this one desperate kiss. He would do anything for her, this ridiculous woman with a temper of fire and a witty tongue and _magic_, yes, even that. He poured his desire into her, his devotion, his reverence, and she met him with an outpouring of emotion of her own. He remembered their kiss on the docks of Minrathous, desperate in a different way, bitter with the taste of goodbye. This was so different, the promise of a new beginning, a future they would tackle together, whatever came. 

He would never leave her. Not again.


	23. Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: [Halestorm - Here's To Us](https://youtu.be/KC0DNLDXJW8)

It was a quiet night. Fenris was happy and sated - _Maker_ how sated, this woman would be the death of him - and with Hawke wrapped in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, he couldn’t remember a time he felt more at peace. They were lying in bed together - in bed! He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. After a while she had insisted he try, and after years and years of sleeping on the floor, he had been convinced that haunting memories of Danarius would make it impossible to sleep there. 

He should have known that Hawke’s presence would be stronger than any memory.

He was just starting to drift off, his fingers sleepily running across her arm, when she spoke. 

“Fenris.”

“Mm?”

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

He opened his eyes, expecting to see her looking at him, but she remained nestled against his shoulder. She sounded half asleep herself.

“I… do not know. Why?”

“I was just thinking. We found each other three times. Don’t you think that feels like fate?”

It did, when she put it like that, but he hummed noncommittally.

Quiet again, but then he felt the need to tell her. “Hawke. I am yours.”

This did get her attention. She leaned back, resting her head on her palm, and looked at him with a small smile. “I thought you said you would never belong to anyone again.”

“You are also mine,” he said simply. “It’s different.”

“So it is.” She deposited a kiss on his shoulder, and a slow grin spread across her face. “Does this mean I should get you a collar?”

“_Hawke_.”

“I mean a proper qunari one. With a chain and everything. Then I can drag you along behind me when I go on wild adventures.”

Three years ago he would have bristled in anger at such a suggestion. Now, with Hawke in his arms and Danarius dead, he could laugh. “How would I protect you if I was trailing behind you?”

“Ah yes, I do need a bodyguard. I guess that rules out the shackles, too.”

He rolled them both over so that he was hovering above her, and pressed a kiss to her mouth. “You are a fool.”

“You love me anyway,” she smiled.

And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. I'm a sucker for a sappy, happy ending. Hawke and Fenris deserve it.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> And if you're interested in that playlist I mentioned, you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4K8KgbPLBqP9idkbI1FLby?si=PGUOGNzxTs-CZ1kJfCxHTw).


End file.
